


In Which Mr Segundus and Mr Childermass Investigate a Magical Disturbance

by darksylvia



Series: Investigations of a Magical Nature [1]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-25 17:13:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17729378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darksylvia/pseuds/darksylvia
Summary: Mr Segundus and Mr Childermass are summoned to a small town to investigate an enchantment.





	1. In Which the Magicians Are Called Upon For Help

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [a prompt from the JSMN kinkmeme](https://jsmn-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1273.html?thread=681977#cmt681977), though it spiralled somewhat, as stories do.
> 
> Betaed by [Palavapeite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/palavapeite/). I am so thankful for her help and this story is one hundred times better for it. Any remaining mistakes are certainly from where I tinkered after the fact.
> 
> This the first time I've attempted to code in footnotes. I have opted to make them both linked and with hovering text. Please let me know if you notice something broken. [ETA Footnote links should be fixed now].
> 
> Much fanon is taken for granted (Look, Mr Segundus gets his magical school in all universes.)

With the removal of Messrs Norrell and Strange from England, and the subsequent return of magic, the remaining magicians found themselves very (almost inconveniently) visible. True, new practitioners were springing up every day, from every far-flung part of the country, but often this was part of the problem: untrained and wildly enthusiastic spell-casting inevitably led to many,  _ many _ magical mistakes (albeit quite a few intriguing triumphs too).[1]

When the locals could fix the mistakes, they handled everything as best they could, which was what most country people were used to doing—no one expected help from London for less than the plague. However, there were inevitably some magical problems that could  _ not _ be handled by a layman.

Thus it did not take long for word to come to various disbanded and regathered magical societies, but many found they, as theoretical magicians, were not prepared to handle these sorts of situations, either. The more arrogant or foolhardy among them would sometimes go out, full of confidence in their ability to set things right, and were lucky when they returned merely chastened, and not worse for the wear. Many gave up magic for the second time. Although a select few emerged as capable of the kind of improvisational skill that could handle these magical mishaps, they were still largely unpracticed, and there remained inevitably problems that needed experience to untangle and disenchant.

This was where both Mr Segundus and Mr Childermass found themselves increasingly called upon.

“And at the most inconvenient of times,” said Mr Segundus to Mr Honeyfoot, who stood beside him in the Starecross entrance hall, still in his dressing gown—much as Mr Segundus himself would have wished to be at such an early hour.

“Very inconvenient,” agreed Mr Honeyfoot. “But do go on, sir. From the sounds of it they need your help most dreadfully.”

“I know,” sighed Mr Segundus. It was not a prideful statement. “Don’t forget the visit from Legrand this afternoon—”

“Of course, of course, John. It’s all in hand,” said Mr Honeyfoot. He was Deputy headmaster of the Starecross School for Magic, and though his magical sensibilities were perhaps not as advanced as Segundus’, his organisational skills were sometimes more so, since he was less likely to become caught up in a journal and forget an appointment.

“I will send word if I am delayed,” said Segundus, and set out on his way.

The spring rains were not kind, but at least they were no longer icy, so while Segundus arrived at his destination thoroughly soaked, he was not in bad spirits. When he came, steaming, into the public house, he was greeted by the proprietor and given a table and a hot cup of wine with admirable swiftness.

It was a crowded enough room—he clearly wasn’t the only traveller to come in for a respite from the rain. Most, however, looked like local farmers and labourers, come to eat their suppers and drink with their friends. There were one or two others who, like him, were clearly outsiders. One small man sat by the fire, cup in hand, reading a journal of some sort, and dressed in much finer clothing than anyone else in the room. A cluster of aristocratic older ladies sat at a table in the corner, steadfastly ignoring the increasingly boisterous conversation from the clusters of farmers.

It wasn’t until he’d been sitting at his little table for some while that he realised that Childermass had arrived before him: he was at a table farther back, in a well-shadowed corner from which he could survey the room. Feeling foolish for not having checked with the publican, he took his cup and made his way to Childermass.

“I know you and the Raven King have an affinity for the rain, but you must admit it makes for difficult travelling,” said Mr Segundus, sitting himself down without waiting for an invitation. They had encountered each other in nearly a dozen similar circumstances before, and after the third such encounter, Childermass had given Segundus his crooked smile and said, “Must we stand on ceremony? You are welcome at my table wherever I am found.”

Now Childermass looked across at him, his eyes barely more than a gleam from the lanterns and firelight and for a moment Segundus swore he saw a flicker of surprise, there and gone, before Childermass nodded in greeting.

“Well met, Mr Segundus. You made good time, despite the rain.”

“It was an  _ urgent _ summons,” said Segundus.

“True enough,” said Childermass. “Though you wouldn’t know it looking at this lively scene.”

It might have passed for an idle comment from anyone else, but the very mildness of Childermass’ tone alerted Segundus to his own misgivings: this did not seem like a town beset by fairy enchantment.

“I have been observing here, since I arrived,” said Childermass. “I have seen nothing amiss. Nothing contrived to mock human actions, no fear or furtiveness. People come and go, the publican does his work, but nothing out of the ordinary has happened for these nearly two hours.”

“Do you suppose these people have not noticed anything?” asked Segundus. “Or are being made not to notice?”

“That seems likely,” agreed Childermass. “And very like fairy magic.”

“But to what purpose?” asked Segundus.

“I rather think fairies are capricious enough that they don’t require a purpose.” 

“I’ve always wondered at that—capriciousness and mischief may be judged differently when a creature is immortal, may it not?” Segundus had written about a similar idea in several of his articles. “But you are right—this cheerful scene is not what I expected. I cannot like it.”

“Which is sensible,” said Childermass. 

Segundus took in the room again with a more critical eye. Despite all that had transpired in the past—oh, could it really be a year, already?—he was still too trusting in nature, and despaired of correcting it. When they worked together, he relied on Childermass’ suspicious and pitiless nature to make up for his own deficiencies.

“My trouble is this,” said Childermass. “I do not want to make any direct inquiries of the villagers to reveal our presence. At this moment, we are anonymous travellers, not magicians.”

“Well, if we aren’t who we are, who shall we be?” asked Segundus.

“It would be easily done to introduce yourself as a school master, since that is what you are. Simply claim a different subject.”

“I do not know very much about other subjects,” said Segundus, dubiously. “I suppose I might be able to claim history if not pressed too sharply.”

“There, you see?” said Childermass, his sideways smile appearing. “It is not so difficult.”

“And what will you be?” asked Segundus. He eyed him up and down. Because he was fond of Childermass he did not say the first occupations that would spring to his mind, were he meeting Childermass for the first time. What  _ had _ he thought the first time he met Childermass? This thought gave him pause because he had a most discomfiting moment when he realised that he did not remember his first encounter with Childermass. When had it been? A book shop? The York cathedral? No, it seemed to him there had been a meeting before that, wherein his impression had been of a person as ominous and powerful as a thundercloud. Before he could think on it longer Childermass answered.

“I shall be a merchant.”

“You shall be a  _ what _ ?” asked Segundus. “What of your wares?”

“It’s no matter, I will not be trying to sell here,” said Childermass, dismissing this.

“And do you propose that we adopt these personas now? To what purpose? It would be as suspicious for a school master and merchant to make enquiries about fairies, if not more so.”

“Who sent the message?” asked Childermass.

“The parish priest, I believe,” said Segundus. “I suppose it might be prudent to be circumspect until we are certain where the problem lies. But I think we shall have to announce our presence to the priest, at the very least.”

“Well then, to the rest of the village, I shall be Mr Coldwell, travelling merchant.”

“You’re enjoying this!” accused Segundus.

The gleam in Childermass’ eye gave him away, but he admitted to nothing.

“Fine—I’m John, oh, John Hargrove, history school master. Now what do you propose we do?”

“Why, take a turn about the village since we can travel no further today.”

“And see what we can see?” asked Segundus.

“Precisely.”

-

The village was nothing out of the ordinary. It looked like many Segundus had passed through, and it was possible he’d even passed through this very one and did not remember.

“What is the name of this place? I cannot recall.” 

“Something-on-Swale,” said Childermass. “That’s the Swale.” He gestured at the river running by, swollen with the rain. At least the rain itself had lessened to a slight drizzle.

It was dreary and idyllic in equal measures, thought Segundus. And wholly unremarkable. There was an ages-old mill-wheel on the river, a stone bridge, cobbled streets with a few houses packed together before the village proper ended and spread out into hilly fields. Segundus had been about to suggest they see if the priest that sent for them was at his church when a faint tinkle of bells sounded in the distance.

Suddenly they were not walking in the worn cobbled streets of Something-on-Swale any longer. Segundus clutched Childermass’ arm, but needn’t have bothered, since they had both stopped to look around at the confusing way an entirely new place was layered over the first.

“A forest?” said Segundus, uncertainly. There were trees among the rowhouses where they could not possibly fit.

“Leading to a brugh, I would hazard,” said Childermass, gesturing. There was a path through the trees, and at the far end of it, nearly lost in misty ether, was a fantastical structure, too latticed and impossible to be called something so mundane as a castle.

“What is it in the village?” said Segundus, squinting and trying not to be sick. He’d had a fair amount of practice in this, and to his benefit, there were no stairs or corners to confuse things here. He thought he could see the outlines of a much smaller, less impressive structure in the mundane world.

“A house of some sort. Can you bear to walk closer?”

“Yes,” said Segundus. “Give me your arm and we will correct each other should our vision get worse.” 

“I think that wise.” Childermass tucked Segundus’ arm more firmly around his own, and in that manner they proceeded up the street-and-forest.

The double vision did not resolve, exactly, but as they approached an object or structure, it became easier to see both the original and the overlay, although both looked, impossibly, equally real.

As they approached the castle at the end of the street, Segundus paused, causing Childermass to stop as well. 

“I do not think I can go inside like this,” said Segundus. “Though I think it much more likely that we will find the cause if we keep our sight doubled.”

“I remember Starecross before Lady Pole’s rescue all too clearly,” agreed Childermass. “We could dull ourselves to the enchantment, but that seems, as you said, likely to blind us to our quarry.”

They stood in thought for a moment.

“It is possible that I can cobble together a solution to this,” said Childermass. “But not here. I should like to do it in the quiet of a private room at the inn. Let us see what else we can find out before we attempt to navigate the brugh.”

“That is much more agreeable,” said Segundus. “Shall we look to the church instead, and see if we might find the priest?”

So they turned from the brugh and walked toward the church. Through their observation they were able to see that not all of the town was burdened with a fantastical fairy overlay.

“Only, say, a quarter,” said Segundus. “Though I cannot think what a fairy would want with it.” It was such an unremarkable town.

“Fairies seem to us flighty creatures,” said Childermass, “But I suppose they must get something from our lands, or they would not bother to traffic with us. Perhaps someone here has bargained with one.”

They had reached the small cathedral. It was well outside the area of enchantment and looked quite ordinary. Segundus extended his hand to push the old wooden door open.

-

The Vicar was in his office, and as it was such a small town, he fulfilled all the other functions of church authority as well. The church still had an uneasy peace with the renewal of English magic, but the priests knew what was and was not in their control—demons, yes; fairies, no.

Priest-Rector-Vicar Thomas Barrow was neither fat nor thin, pale nor florid. He was a most unremarkable individual, with not an ounce of charisma. “I’m sure his sermons are similar,” Childermass would murmur to Segundus later. Despite this, he clearly had the wherewithal to notice the town in his spiritual care being slowly enchanted.

“It started a fortnight ago—or at least, that’s when I noticed it,” Barrow said, after he’d seated them in the uprightly uncomfortable chairs in his office.

“What did you notice first, Vicar?” asked Childermass. 

“Well, the river, sir, if you please,” said Barrow, giving a slightly defiant look to Childermass, as if he expected to be disbelieved.

“And what about it, precisely?” asked Segundus, in as soothing a tone as he could manage. “You mustn’t think we’ll be shocked, after the things we’ve seen this year alone,” he added.

“Ah, well,” the Vicar still hesitated. They waited. “You see, it is flowing the wrong way.”

At their startled expressions, he rushed to continue. “I walk along it every day.” He made a nervous gesture in the direction of the river. “I’ve lived along the Swale nearly my whole life. I sailed boats made of leaves down it when I was a boy, fished in it, even boated down it, and so on. The river flows north to other rivers and eventually to the North Sea. Right now it is flowing south, and I cannot think how there have not been floods upriver unless the enchantment has stolen the flow.” He rubbed his forehead in a tired manner. “I suppose it must have done, or there would have been an outcry by now.”

“Mr Segundus, was the mill wheel in the river turning?” asked Childermass.

“You know, I don’t believe it was,” Segundus said, after a moment’s thought. “I assumed it was a relic and had been replaced further along the river.”

“Continue, please, Vicar,” said Childermass. “What did you notice next?”

Barrow paused and then it was as if the flood gates had broken.

“The orchard on the west road is no longer full of apples, but of a strange fruit that smells like a...a deep slumber and yarrow flowers,” he said this guiltily, as if he was ashamed of such a fanciful description. “The rain is different when it falls past the town square these last weeks. It is warm and each drop is as a prism. The south road, where the big house lies, has become only a forest track, with aged trees trees lining the sides, but trees so strange and ancient, I could not name them. The big house itself, grown decrepit these many years, now looks like some palace from the ends of the earth.”

“What of your people,” interjected Childermass. “Have any of the town folk fallen under the enchantment?”

“I cannot—I don’t rightly know,” said Barrow. “I suspect some may have, but it is not so straightforward a matter as the landscape.”

“If you are the only one who has noticed the changes, then I fear there must—” started Segundus.

“No, I am not,” said Barrow. “There are others—many of those who use the river for their livelihood seem to realise something is amiss, but they do not notice the specifics. Many of the children as well, although I tried to impress upon them that they should not go near that palace on the Wall estate. But it has been spreading, you see. Many of the houses are now different as well. Matron Farleigh’s dress shop has become...a shop of strange potions. I went in to make sure the Matron was well, and she seemed unharmed, but the dresses were gone and only the strange bottles with unsettling labels were in their place. Matron Farleigh did not notice, but her youngest daughter whispered to me that there were two shops and that she did not like this new one.”

“I had already made my mind up to write to you,” said Barrow. “And then the enchantment spread to a new street. I wrote with haste, and since then it has taken two more streets. I do not know what to do. I almost wish it were devilry—at least the church instructs on that.”

He sat back and regarded them wearily. Perhaps, thought Segundus charitably, his colourless manner was due to fatigue.

“We are here, now,” said Segundus, “And we will do what we can.”

“Vicar,” said Childermass, his pitiless gaze much less comforting than Segundus’ sympathetic one. “You said you grew up in this area. Do you know of any fairy stories about this town?”

“No,” he frowned. “Well.” His eyes darted about briefly. “That is, there are some tales. It has been so many years since I thought of them, I do not remember them very well.”

“Who would remember them? Or perhaps they are written somewhere?” asked Segundus, lighting up at the prospect of a new book, but Barrow was already shaking his head.

“They are not written, that I know of. But I suppose...you had best ask one of the mothers, or an older child. Perhaps...Violet Radcliffe. I can introduce you. But not today, I think.” He looked out his window. “It’s nearly full dark. She would be right not to answer the door even to me at this hour, especially considering the circumstances.”

“Quite so,” said Segundus. “Shall we call upon you after breakfast, instead?”

“That is agreeable to me,” said Barrow. He stood to see them out.

-

In the near dark, the doubling of the town was even more eerie, for all the buildings within the enchantment shone with an odd, pale light, as if a moon much larger and closer had lit them up. But the English sky was cloudy and dark, with small intermittent showers of rain coming down to wet the cobbles. 

Very few townsfolk were about, and most of them were hurrying home. Segundus saw the well-dressed gentleman from the inn striding by, cane steadying him against the slippery cobble stones. He gave them a friendly nod, as they passed the mill for the third time that day, and Segundus absently nodded back. The magicians stopped to frown at the mill briefly, and looked into the water of the Swale. It was the only element of their immediate surroundings that did not have a second, enchanted version of itself.

They returned to the inn in silence, where they enquired after rooms. The aristocratic ladies, it seemed, had taken all but one, but this did not concern either of the magicians, as they had grown quite used to sharing a room for both convenience and economy. 

In the privacy of their room, Segundus thought it prudent to cast a spell to make their privacy more secure. It was one of his own invention, based on a spell by Pale, but by way of Jonathan Strange’s notes[2].

Once the spell was cast and they were seated at the small table, Childermass explained his idea for managing the double vision. He intended for each of them to see only one of the two worlds, each the opposite of the other. 

“I do not say that it is not a good idea,” said Segundus, uneasily. “But I cannot like the thought that we will each be blinded to part of the business. What if we become separated? We shall both be vulnerable to mischief that we cannot see.”

“That is the advantage of how I will cast the spell. You see, it shall not be attached to our persons, but rather to an object we carry. This means we can drop the object if we must, although admittedly, this means it can be taken from us as well. We can make it something easily disguised, though. A neckcloth or glove, or something similar.”

“That does sound less precarious,” said Segundus. “Would we be able to switch objects? Could I, say, give you my watch fob in exchange for your hat and we’d see the opposite?”

“I should think so, but we will have to try it to be sure. It won’t be the first spell we’ve invented on the job.”

“No,” laughed Segundus. “We’re getting quite adaptable. Or at least, I am. I’m sure your mind was already quite agile before.”

“At other things, yes. In Mr Norrell’s employ it was imprudent to shew myself as too...agile at magic.”

“Yes, I suppose so. For all his knowledge, he is quite the most selfish man I ever met.” Segundus gave Childermass a half-defiant look, as if he thought he might contradict this opinion, but Childermass merely nodded.

“The leverages and schemes I had to enact to get him to perform the most basic social necessities were extremely ridiculous. Why, when he received you and Mr. Honeyfoot—” Here he stopped and gave Segundus a curious look, full of expectation and apprehension. Then it vanished and he said, “Well, no use in going over the past when we have much larger concerns before us.”

And they set to work on the spell.

-

1\. Not the least of which was the unexpected rearrangement of an entire section of hills in East Devonshire, which, after the initial outrage from the sheep farmers, turned out to improve the grazing and thus the yield.[return]

2\.  The name appeared to be _A Spell to Deafen Those Without_ but Segundus was never sure if that had been Strange’s description of it, or the title given it by Martin Pale. In any case, it only required a length of twine, and as such was one of Pale’s simpler spells. Segundus and Childermass both started a habit of carrying such a length at all times, along with other sorts of emergency magical supplies.[return]


	2. In Which The Magicians Form a Plan

Morning seemed to come far too soon and Mr Segundus did not feel at all rested. As was typical, Childermass was already awake, sitting at their small table with his cards, although Segundus noted that he did not look any better rested than Segundus. After breaking their fast in the public room, with the scant number of other travellers (the Gentleman with the cane seemed to have slept well enough given his cheerful conversation with the aristocratic ladies) they set out to see the Vicar. Barrow awaited them at the doors of his church, hands clasped in a way that spoke of anxiety rather than pious decorum.

“Good morning, sirs. I hope you slept well,” he said to them, but was looking instead in the direction of the enchantment.

After they had murmured their polite lies about having done so, he led them along narrow, cobbled lanes to the door of one Mrs Violet Radcliffe. Barrow rapped on it, and it was only a few moments before it was opened to reveal a thin-faced woman with a slightly suspicious look in her eyes that only cleared upon seeing the Vicar. She smiled, revealing a dimple and a glimpse of her face as it must have been in a more youthful time.

“Good morning, Vicar,” she said. She glanced at Segundus and Childermass, but her gaze did not linger. “How is it I can help you?”

“This will sound an odd request, Mrs Radcliffe,” said Barrow. “But I would like for you to recount some of our local tales to these gentlemen. They are—”

“I am a merchant,” interjected Childermass, with an undercurrent of delight that was probably, Segundus hoped, only detectable to those who knew him well. 

“He is a bookseller,” Segundus invented quickly. “And I am a historian, looking to write a book about local legends and such. We would be sure to make note of your contribution, should the book see publication.”

She regarded them with a blank expression nearly as good as Childermass’, and then finally said, “We may as well discuss it in the warmth. Come in, gentlemen.”

As they entered, Segundus noted the horseshoe nailed into the lintel above her door, and thought that at the very least,  _ she _ had probably not been enchanted yet. The house was clean and well-cared for, but shewed the Radcliffes were not quite prosperous. It was in the way the few decorative touches were small and homely, possibly several owners away from their original. The chairs before the fire were old and wobbled when they sat upon them. 

“What tale would you like, gentlemen? I know many.”

“Well, we are most interested in local tales, you know,” said Segundus brightly. He barely had to feign his enthusiasm. He’d been interested in the subject before, of course. And since caring for Lady Pole he had actually done quite a bit more research on fairy stories—that was, actual accounts of fairy dealings—and Mrs Radcliffe’s tales might be more useful than just for the aid of her town. He thought he might get a scholarly article or two from this whole affair.

“Most particularly those that deal with the fairies,” added Childermass. “They are quite popular just now, since the faerie roads have reappeared.”

“Have you anything recounting, ah, town history and old fairy dealings?” asked Segundus.

“There is the tale of the fairy bridge built at Thoresby—”

“I’m afraid we’ve heard that one,” said Segundus, apologetic. “Unless your tale differs from the ones told close to York.”

“I do not think that it does,” she said, and hesitated. “There is one that is told about our own town,” she said. “I don’t tell it often because the children don’t ask for it. It is not very...thrilling.”

“Do not worry about our entertainment,” said Segundus, piously. “We seek knowledge.”

“Very well,” she said. “It begins with a farmer, Tom Wall. He owned the farm that’s now Old Mather’s—” she paused and looked at them. “That’s the farm to the north and east of town,” she clarified. “Though it was a sight bigger in his day, and the land is now farmed by several people, with the big house left to moulder away.”

“Thank you for the clarification, Mrs Radcliffe. Do continue.” Mr Segundus made a note in his book. Mr Childermass sat with his usual posture of vaguely insolent attentiveness.

“Well,” said Mrs Radcliffe, eying them both as if she didn’t quite know what to make of them, “Tom Wall was fond of the apple wine we make in these parts every autumn, and it was one such autumn that he’d given his orchard over to the wine making, and all had gone well. It was one of the best harvests in a hundred years, and having drunk a large quantity of last year’s wine in celebration, he began to tell the others—those sharing the celebration at the end of a successful harvest—that it was all thanks to the fairies.

“‘Well sure, Tom,’ said the workers and the other farmers, deep in their cups as well. ‘Of course it was the fairies!’

“He perceived he was being mocked and, as some men are prone to do when drinking, became angry.

“‘It was the fairies! My apples are the finest in this part of the country, and it is well known that fairies are partial to apples!’ he insisted.

“You’ve never seen a fairy in your life,’ said one old farmer. ‘You wouldn’t recognise one if it walked up to you and asked for a draught of your wine!’ The company laughed uproariously. At that, Tom stood and left. He walked toward his house, which was not a far distance, but it was made more difficult by it being night and him with a belly full of wine. He passed through his own fields, but they were large, and it was dark, and he was not walking a straight line, so it took him much longer than it might have, and that just made him more angry.

“‘It’s true I’ve never seen a fairy,’ he said to himself, ‘But how dare they think my orchard not good enough! Of course it is fairy bless’d. Never so many apples before!’ and he went on like this for quite a while. ‘Why,’ he said. ‘I’d give five acres of good earth to see a fairy! Then I’d go right back there and tell them what I’d seen. They would have no call to laugh at me, then!’

“No sooner had he said this, than he perceived a sweet bell chiming in the distance. It was not solemn like a church-bell, but tinkling like the sort above a shop door, and as he listened, it expanded until it was no longer just a bell, but many instruments, all playing a joyous sort of song, and it seemed to reach into his drunken heart and squeeze it, until he found he was weeping.

“Here he saw, away across his field, a small fairy brugh, and around it danced a whole host of fairies. They were dressed in the finest clothes he’d ever seen—cobweb lace gowns and new-leaf green suits, hats of velvet rose, and dancing slippers as delicate as lilies.

“He rubbed his eyes, but the vision continued. ‘Well,’ he said to himself, ‘The lads will believe me now. I’d better get a closer look so I can tell them all the details.’ And so saying, he walked closer. No sooner had his boot crossed into the light of their revels, everything became dark. Cursing, he stumbled forward into the rock pile in the centre of his field where he and his forefathers had been placing the rocks dug up during plowing for two centuries. It was hard to see much of anything, but he knew the fairies were gone.

“‘Still,’ he thought to himself. ‘I have seen them. I’ll go back and tell those old naysayers what I saw!’

“He did manage to find his way back to the fire, where the men still were celebrating, the apple press at their backs. And he recounted his vision to them. 

“‘Aw, Tom Wall, you’re deep in it,’ said one farmer. ‘The wine’s got you in its grip.’

“‘I’ll show you!,’ he said, indignantly. And so he managed to convince a handful of the younger farmers to walk along with him through his fields, laughing all the way. When they came to the stone mound, as I’m sure you can guess, there were no fairies at their revels. But one of the farmers spotted something in the grass and, chuckling, picked it up. ‘Are these your fairies, Tom?’ he asked, holding a handful of lilies and roses. Another pointed to a group of mushrooms, ‘Or maybe these are your fairies, Tom!’

“By this time, Tom had had enough and was deep enough in his cups that the young farmers were obliged to carry him back to his house and put him to bed. The next day he remembered his fairy encounter and, though he was no longer so angry at being disbelieved, he commissioned a sign for his orchard, to say that the orchard was blessed by the fairies. The sign is still there, and the orchard still produces a good crop of apples, although not so much more than others in these parts. Tom died without any children and the other farmers took on the care of his fields when he died.”

“That is the end, madam?” asked Childermass. 

“Aye,” she said. “As I said...it is not in high demand among the children, but it is said to be true—Old Tom insisted to the day he died.”

“Ah, well, thank you, Mrs Radcliffe. Am I correct in assuming that is the only local fairy story?” asked Segundus

“As far as I know, yes sir,” she said. 

“Well then, we are very grateful to you for telling it to us. We shall be sure to faithfully transcribe it,” said Segundus.

Here they rose and took their leave. Childermass gave Mrs Radcliffe several coins for her trouble, and they were again at loose ends. When they left the Vicar at the door to his church, with assurances that they would tell him should they make any progress, the two men walked once again toward the enchanted area.

“Mrs Radcliffe’s tale has several elements in common with an Irish fairy story I once read,” said Segundus.

“I have heard several stories with similarities as well,” agreed Childermass. “But until now I had always dismissed them as drunk farmers’ ramblings, dutifully remembered by their descendants, with no real truth to them.”

“Now you think there might be merit in them?” asked Segundus. “I am also inclined to dismiss this one as drunken ramblings.”

“I think there might be a grain of truth in it,” said Childermass. “Or, rather, the events recounted might be the extent of the story from the view of Tom Wall, but not the extent of it from the point of view of the fairy. Tell me, Mr Segundus, when Lady Pole was telling her stories—as you pointed out, seemingly from the fairy’s perspective—did any of them ever vary at the point in the story where the fairies were seen?”

“You’re talking of, oh, the sort like this one where the fairies are seen as small and harmless, with lily slippers, and so on,” said Segundus. “We were not able to match more than a handful, but the one about the fairies shrinking the children in order to lead them in a game, you recall it?”

“Aye,” said Childermass. They had stopped without any word of agreement at the street bordering the enchanted area, and it looked a good deal less powerful in the bright light of morning, with sun just breaking through the clouds.

“Well, Lady Pole related a story that somewhat matched it. There were children involved, at any rate, but the fairies did not shrink themselves down to play. They merely enchanted the children after the fact to think they had enjoyed an adventure, when what actually happened was the fairies trotted the children out at one of their revels as sort of...exotic animals to be put upon display, I suppose. I do not believe they were ill treated, but the two versions certainly differ significantly. And there is a chance they are not the same story after all. You understand how bits of stories get passed around and added to other stories at the storyteller’s whim. Still the details overlap in a suggestive manner.”

“And from what we know of our experiences with fairies, we might say with some confidence that the version Lady Pole told held more truth,” said Childermass, a little grimly.

“That is all too true, sir,” agreed Segundus. “Tom Wall’s fairy encounter, if it was not simply a drunken illusion, was likely quite different from the story he related.”

“Yes. The question then becomes whether it has any relation to what is happening now, and the only person who can answer that is the fairy.”

“You think we should go ask the fairy,” said Segundus wearily. It was not a question. 

“I cannot see another way we shall know,” said Childermass. “And it is the most expedient.”

“And the most dangerous!” said Segundus. “I have done many things this last half-year that would have turned my blood to ice before the return of magic, but I cannot help but be afraid of trafficking with fairies,” he said. “Have we not seen the destruction they are capable of?”

“All that you say is true,” said Childermass. “And yet, as unqualified as we are to take on a fairy, we are also the most qualified, do you not agree? If not us, who shall it be?”

“You know I agree,” said Segundus, sober and uneasy. “But I cannot like it.”

“We shall not go unprepared,” said Childermass. “Let us retreat to the inn and consider our approach. The enchantment has not spread since we first saw it. We have the time to pay the matter proper attention.”

“And become ever more sure that it is quite the most dangerous thing we’ve ever done,” said Segundus.

“Come, Mr Segundus,” said Childermass, the pitiless twinkle back in his eye. “You have been sharpening your debate skills on the hardest opponents—children. You’ve quite enough practice to give a fairy pause.”

“I suppose that is true,” said Segundus, with a small laugh. “Why, not a week ago, young Philip pressed me so sharply, I nearly had to give a philosopher’s proof for the Argentine magicians’ use of dream magic!”

Segundus detailed the story to Childermass as they walked back, laughing at the antics of his pupils.

When they had reached their room, however, both men grew solemn. They knew, more than most, what they were taking on. 

“Ought we to send a warning of some kind, should our efforts be...ineffective?” asked Segundus.

“Most probably,” agreed Childermass. “You are thinking of Mr Honeyfoot?”

“Yes. Perhaps to the Strangites, or the Magicians of York as well.”

“All of them, I think,” said Childermass. “For if we cannot...then I do not think I am wrong in thinking it will take a great deal of effort to stop the spread of the enchantment. I will write to Mr Hadley-Bright and the York Society, if you will appeal to Mr Honeyfoot. We can hand them personally into the mail coach today, for I do not trust any who live in this town to be free from suspicion.”

“Ah, you feel the suspicion I do!” said Segundus. “Even with the Vicar, I cannot but help feel there is a lack of something, a part of the story we are missing.”

“I am a naturally suspicious person, sir,” said Childermass. “It relieves my own mind to hear you say so, for it means that it is not just a fancy of my nature.”

“No, indeed,” said Segundus. “What have your cards to say about it?”

“Let us write the letters, and then I will ask them,” he said.

So they set about writing their instructions and the essential facts of what they had learned to the various parties that might need to ride to the rescue of the town (and themselves). Then, as the ink lay drying, Childermass laid his cards out.

“I am asking after the Vicar, if he is true, or compromised in some manner,” explained Childermass. He turned over one card, and then another, his face impassive. “I do not think he is enchanted,” said Childermass. “But I think we are correct, and he has neglected to tell us something important. The cards do not name it a lie, and not quite an act of bad faith. It is more as if...he has a secret that he desperately would like to be unrelated to this affair, but which is very much related to it, and he is reluctant to offer it.” He paused and flipped a new card. “However, it should not change our plan.”

Abruptly, he swept up the cards, and began laying them anew. “I will ask them a better question,” he said. “I will ask what path we should tread to see this through.”

“Here,” he said laying a fresh card out, “we see our beginning, as we were drawn into it. And here, our current circumstance.” Another card. “But here, here is where our choice comes into it.” A third card. He paused for a long moment, his eyes sharp on his cards.

“Well, sir, what does it tell us is the best course?” said Mr Segundus, when he could stand it no more. 

“There does not appear to be a best course,” said Childermass, brow furrowed. “We are not to delay, for if we do, circumstances will become more complicated and less likely to be resolved. However,” he paused, laid another card: L’ermite, but reversed, “This says we shall become enchanted; that we will go into Faerie and be lost.”

“Lost!” cried Mr Segundus. “Surely we can change our approach!”

“Perhaps it is not so dramatic as it appears,” said Childermass, uneasily. He swept the cards up again. “I will ask what the fairy wants.”

He was silent as he laid these cards, until the last was revealed. 

“It considers this town the spoils of its efforts,” said Childermass. “Through trickery and acting quickly, it secured a bargain and has come to claim it, as a lord claims a farm overdue on its rent.”

“A bargain with Tom Wall,” said Segundus. 

“Very probably,” agreed Childermass.

“Who is, presumably, dead.”

“Well, I hope so for his own sake, though not ours. Perhaps we can use that to persuade the fairy the bargain is void.”

“We shall need more than that with which to bargain,” said Segundus. “But we shall not go in with only our wits. Let us prepare, Childermass.”

-

The list of protections against fairies is long, and largely false, or rather, in most cases tailored to a specific sort of fairy, and almost completely useless against any other. The return of magic to England had meant that Segundus and Childermass were rapidly learning which was which, but failing to come up with alternatives.

However, their years of long study had not left them entirely defenceless. A lead cufflink would not provide much protection, but it might offer a deterrent. Certainly, a fairy powerful enough to take over a town would likely not be confused overmuch by a garment turned inside out, but it would likely not abduct a person with rowan berries in their pocket, if only because it was beneath their dignity. Since fairies loved to bargain and disdained to lie, the best defence was always to have the mind of a logistician or a philosopher, both of which were skills ascribed to magicians by the very nature of their studies.

“It would not do to wear so many paltry protections that we appear nervous,” said Segundus.

“As you say. We’d do better to treat with it like the magicians of old,” said Childermass. “As if we really had the stones and water and such at our command.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve made any inroads into—” started Segundus, his eyes lighting up with a new magical question.

“No,” said Childermass with a frown, “Well. I managed to coax a bevy of small pebbles to follow me like ducklings. They seemed to think I was the start of an avalanche, and it took me several hours to talk them out of it. Stone is the element I seem to converse with best. And you, Mr Segundus?”

“Nothing so overt,” said Segundus, with a philosophic shrug. “It is the same as I have always been—I am in the habit of talking to the plants, and they listen, somewhat. Though I admit it is only recently that I’ve gotten the impression that they are talking back to me. My roses aren’t very complex, you understand. Mostly they seem to comment on the brightness of the sun, or complain of snails.”

“It is still progress,” said Childermass. “And we may still use our knowledge to bluff greater knowledge. Likely, we will do what you and I have always done—be mediators to greater powers.”

Segundus looked at him in a moment of revelation. “But of course, Mr Childermass! You have hit upon the very thing. Let us be solicitors for Tom Wall’s estate! It gives us a plausible fiction to stand on. Why, I remember that solicitor in Mr Norrell’s employ and he was a most astonishing man. Mild and apologetic and as unbending as a small, old oak!”

“That certainly describes Mr Robinson,” laughed Childermass. His eyes had a spark in them. “Very well, no longer shall we be book merchant and historian, nor indeed magicians, but solicitors representing Tom Wall’s estate, sent by…”

“His niece!” said Segundus. 

Childermass’ predilection for taking new identities was a novelty for Segundus. He had always felt himself too unremarkable to take on any sort of alternate identity, but Childermass’ influence had worked upon him until he had realised he needn’t take on identities of kings or generals: he could play any range of roles that were small and easily hidden. Still, when not in the company of Childermass, the idea rarely occurred to him.

“But as we know, fairies do not like outright lies,” mused Segundus. “Perhaps the Vicar knows who the land actually belongs to under English law? If it is half a lie, and we say only that we are there to stake the claim of the actual owner…”

“That is true,” said Childermass. “We will be more politicians than anything else, I suppose. Dancing language around in a circle to avoid perjuring ourselves. And I think we should go now. It is nearing midday, and as you know that is an auspicious time to face any pernicious magic.”

“I cannot think how we could be any more prepared,” sighed Segundus. “Putting it off can do us no good. Let us go to the Vicar, sir, and find the name of the owner, and then go on and face this business.” 

There was a long pause as Childermass gathered his things. He looked back up at Segundus with a determined sort of look. 

“Mr Segundus, sir, I must tell you that I find you very...admirable. There is no one I would rather confront a fairy beside than you.”

“Oh,” said Segundus, eyes startled wide. “I...am glad, sir. You know, of course, that I hold you in the same esteem, or so I hope. I rather think without your presence I would not have the courage to do most of the things we have been called upon to do recently.”

“Perhaps not, Mr Segundus. But I think you would find it in yourself with or without me, and I thank you for it.”

With that, Childermass swept from their room, Segundus following him and blushing, rather.


	3. In Which The Magicians Call Upon a Fairy

The Vicar was still in his church when they arrived.

“Oh, yes, I believe I have the records in my office,” he responded to their query, but in a manner that Childermass thought betrayed an uneasiness that called his mind back to what the cards had said.

They were obliged to sit (somewhat impatiently) in his office while he rifled through records. It was nearly already midday when the Vicar found the correct papers and spread them on the desk.

“It says here that the title was deeded to Elisabeth Davies nee Wall, his niece,” the Vicar said. Childermass cut an amused smile toward Segundus. “He had no children of his own, but I believe his brother had four. However, they all died before Mr Wall, except for Elisabeth. It was believed by the executors she was his only living relative. However, she was not a farmer and she and her husband did not want to become farmers, so she contracted Old Mather, who was actually Mather senior, then, not Mather the younger that is with us now, to manage the property in her name for a share of the profit and for use of the land for some of his own crops.”

“That is rather...detailed,” said Childermass. “How fortunate we are that you have kept such good records.”

“Yes, well, it was my predecessor,” said the Vicar, tidying the papers in a distracted manner. “You believe this will help?”

“Perhaps,” said Childermass, noncommittally, with a subtle look to Segundus to warn him not to volunteer their information. However, he needn’t have bothered: Segundus was squinting at the Vicar with a confused concentration, and Childermass rather thought he knew that look and resolved to ask him about it when they were free of the man.

“Is Mrs Davies still alive?”

“I doubt it; she would have to be very old indeed. I do not have a record of her death, but she did not live in this parish, so I would not. Perhaps she had children and left it to them, but if so, they have not come to see about it.” Barrow glanced nervously out the window and then back at them.

“Thank you, Vicar Barrow” said Childermass. 

“We should be going,” said Segundus abruptly, just as the Vicar had opened his mouth to say something. “We need the daylight.”

“Of course,” said Barrow. “Do let me know if I can be of any further assistance.”

Agreeing that they would, Barrow saw them to the door of the church.

They had not gone a far before Childermass said, “Out with it, sir. What did you see? Or perhaps guess?”

“Does it not seem strange that the Vicar is the only adult who seems to be uneasy, and notice the oddness of the town?” asked Segundus.

“I supposed a man of god might have some protection from a fairy’s magic and illusions, but now that you have pointed it out, I don’t know of any other holy man afforded that protection.”

“It is known fairies do not like the symbols of Christianity over-much, but the priests themselves have never seemed any more immune to fairy magic than the next man,” agreed Segundus. 

“You propose he has some magical talent?” asked Childermass.

“I think that he does, but does not wish for it.” 

“And seeks to hide it?” prompted Childermass.

“Or repress it beneath a strong dose of religion.”

“I suppose some latent magical talent would give him the ability to see the enchantment,” said Childermass. “Though he is certainly the opposite of even the dullest of magicians.”

“That is true,” said Segundus. “Only...imagine you were a younger son meant for the church. Wouldn’t you do everything in your power to promote the correct qualities and suppress the wrong in order to succeed at the only profession open to you?”

“He has done a thorough job of it,” said Childermass, doubtfully, thinking of the Vicar’s colourless personality and unremarkable office.

“Just so,” said Segundus. “Except when I looked at his face in the morning sunlight from the window, whenever he was distracted or distant, his eyes changed colour from brown to quite a startling gold just for a brief moment or two, at his most distracted.”

“I did not notice such a thing,” Childermass was giving him a considering sort of look that never failed to make Segundus feel rather too warm. “But I do not doubt you.”

They had paused at the edge of the enchantment, although Childermass was the only one who could now perceive it. It did not seem, Childermass concluded, to have spread any further south than the watermill, though it had changed the storefronts to the east.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” a voice called out, and Segundus spotted the well-dressed man with the cane that he had already noted several times since his arrival. He strode along beside the river sedately, seemingly enjoying a morning stroll.

“Good morning,” said Segundus, with an anxious glance at the sky to ascertain that it was, indeed, still morning, though doubtlessly only for a few minutes longer.

“After yesterday’s downpour, this is most fine weather, wouldn’t you agree?” The Gentleman smiled pleasantly at them and tipped his hat, but did not break his stride, as he continued his walk.

“Yes, quite,” said Segundus faintly. 

“I wish you well on your business,” he said, without slowing.

“And you!” said Segundus.

They waited a moment until he was further along before resuming their conversation.

“I believe it might be the very moment of midday,” said Childermass. They turned toward the enchantment, and with only a small pause, walked into it. Segundus nervously touched the handkerchief in his pocket, which Childermass had enchanted to give him sight of only the ordinary world, but his steps did not falter.

It meant that, though neither of them were feeling queer or ill with double vision, they were both quite nervous of what they knew they could not see. On the doorstep, they paused.

“I suppose I shall knock,” said Segundus, who saw an ordinary door to a somewhat impressive old house that had not been well taken care of.

“That would be agreeable,” said Childermass, who instead saw a door that seemed to be made of green velvet or very fine moss, and a door knocker shaped like a small snake that looked altogether too real, all attached to a fantastical structure only loosely resembling a castle.

As Segundus knocked, they both realised their enchanted items did not segregate sound, only sight, for while they both heard the ordinary sound of metal on wood, they also heard a hiss and then a chiming, as if very small bells had started ringing very far away. Segundus, for his part, was glad that they were far away because they gave him a strange feeling of forgetting, as if there were some urgent matter that had slipped his mind, like dreams of the sort where he was looking endlessly for something but could not remember what.

Childermass was not immune to this feeling, but for him it evoked long, strange nights at sea when the vastness of ocean and sky filled him up just to the point of terror without quite tipping him over, for it seemed to him sometimes that the vastness was just as thin as a sheet of paper stretched over he knew not what, and that forgetting this vastness was his only defence against it.

The bells faded, and the door opened. To Segundus’ sight, a small, drab person stood in the doorway, dressed like a rather old-fashioned footman. However, the person Childermass saw was squat as a mushroom, and rather looked like one, too, and there was something about its eyes that seemed odd to Childermass, though he could not say what.

“Hello, sirs,” said the person. “May I ask what business you have at this house?” Just as with the bells, both men heard a strange and unsettling doubling of the question, one in a tone so ordinary as to be forgettable, and one that made a noise that Segundus imagined as that of a beetle crawling along a dry leaf, if it could be made as loud as a voice.

“We are here,” said Childermass. “On behalf of the heirs of Mrs Elisabeth Davies. We would like to speak to the master of the house.”

“I will see if he is available,” said the person. “You may wait.” And so saying, it shut the door in their faces. Childermass and Segundus exchanged a glance, but said nothing.

Moments later, the door sprang back open to reveal an entirely new individual. To Mr Segundus, he looked like a country gentleman—vigorous and sporting, with a large moustache, and a face that gave a slight impression of a fox. To Mr Childermass, however, there appeared a person of indeterminate gender, with startlingly large eyes and long red curls, wearing a velvet green robe, and giving them both an expectant look.

“May we presume you are the master of this house?” asked Segundus, for which Childermass was grateful, as he found himself unsure how to address the fairy individual.

“Yes, I am the master of—” and here, they both heard two titles layered quite on top of each other. One was ‘the Wall House’ and the other sounded like ‘the Sea of Contrarieties.’ “What is your business with me?”

“We are here on behalf of Mrs Elisabeth Davies’ heirs, to investigate their claim of inheritance toward this house and its properties,” said Childermass.

“That sounds like quite a serious business. I am sure you are mistaken, for this house is mine by right, but you may certainly come in and explain the claim to me,” said the person-gentleman. “Come, we will sit in the parlour.” He led the way inside, past the mushroom-shaped person, and through a rather grand entry hall into a smaller parlour.

The parlour looked either like a bordello lodged inside of a giant beating heart (to Childermass) or, in Segundus’ view, a rather unremarkable room with faded brocade furniture, and a weak fire in the fire-place.

“Please, sit down,” said the gentleman-person. “And tell me all about this claim.”

Childermass and Segundus exchanged a look, and Segundus spoke first. “We were contacted to look into the claim of the children of Elisabeth Davies—maiden name Wall—who was Mr Wall’s niece. It seems they were unaware that Mrs Davies had owned this property.”

“Imagine our surprise to find that it is occupied,” put in Childermass, at his most mild. “This is the Wall estate, is it not?”

“Well, in point of fact, this is _my_ estate, though I do believe at some point a Mr Wall did live here,” said the person-gentleman. “It’s been some time, however. I do wonder about these children of—Mrs Davies, you said?—They can’t have been at all attentive if they are only now noticing a rather sizeable piece of property as missing. No, I cannot see how they would have any claim here.” The person-gentleman turned and rang a tiny bell that sounded as if it was echoing in a different space than they were sitting, and made Mr Segundus feel very queer indeed, though he tried not to dwell on it, as if he had suddenly caught a breeze, but only on the tip of every hair on his body. Mr Childermass, distracted by the heartbeat of the room, did not notice this oddness. Such lapse of acuity was quite unlike him in the normal scheme of things, but he was concentrating hard on telling himself they had not been shrunk down and led into a creature’s heart, and using a great deal more effort to pretend his usual mild attention.

“Tea, Schubert,” the fairy said to the mushroom person when it appeared in the doorway.

“You needn’t go to the trouble,” said Childermass. “If you deny the claim, we shall have to go back to the parish records and see where we might have gone wrong.”

“Yes,” added Mr Segundus. “Perhaps it was a neighbouring estate, and not this one at all.”

“Well, if this Mrs Davies was related to Mr Wall, then I am afraid you have the right place. You simply don’t have a claim, since all was given to me by Mr Wall himself.”

“Oh, how silly we have been,” Mr Segundus said to Childermass. “We should have simply asked if the property had been deeded or willed to this gentleman. If it is already legally put forth on paper, especially if it predates Mr Wall’s death, I’m sure the heirs will have to concede a prior claim.”

“Yes,” said Childermass, focusing very precisely on the conversation. “Shall we cast our legal eye on your title, sir, and finish this whole business upon the instant?” 

“Oh, certainly, certainly, if it can be found,” said the fairy easily. “I will have Schubert search for it while we have tea. Really, gentlemen, you must allow me to be a proper host. Even solicitors must eat.”

And so there was nothing they could do that wasn’t forthrightly rude to manoeuvre out of tea, unless they wished to go against the rule of hospitality, with a fairy no less.

It was at this point that Segundus noticed Childermass looking a little uneasy. To the casual observer, he probably merely looked bored, but Segundus was no longer a casual observer, and he could see the strain in Childermass’ disaffected sprawl.

“Mr Coldwell,” he said meaningfully, making sure he had got Childermass’ attention.

“Yes, Mr Hargrove?” said Childermass, playing his part. 

“You look a trifle flushed. Would you like my handkerchief?” Segundus made as if to pass his enchanted handkerchief over, but Childermass waved it away.

“It is nothing.” He turned to the fairy. “Tell me, how are you finding this little town? I imagine you came from quite a grander place—London, perhaps?”

“It is quaint,” said the fairy. “But I do find it to be different when one is a property owner, you know.” It nodded grandly at them. “I feel responsible for improvements to the town. Some modernisation and a few aesthetic changes could not go amiss. At my own expense, of course.”

“I thought the old watermill had a look of having been recently remodelled.” said Segundus. “Though the water wheel is stuck—perhaps it is meant to be ornamental?”

“Yes, quite unnecessary. I also caused a few shops on the broad street to be restored and improved. Have you gentlemen had the chance to walk along it?”

“We have not yet had the pleasure,” said Childermass. 

“Well, you must before you leave town—Ah, here is Schubert.” Schubert laid out the tea, which to Mr Childermass looked nothing like tea at all, but rather like green-shelled beetles humming over each other in a bowl, and a small mound of pink sand where Mr Segundus saw tea cakes and sandwiches [3]. For the tea itself, the scent that came from it was indescribable, but both magicians immediately wished to drink it, which, as anyone who had paid the barest amount of attention to fairy stories would know, was reason enough to make sure they did not let a drop pass their lips.

“Lovely,” murmured Segundus, when it became apparent that Childermass could not be relied upon for pleasantries (not that he could ever be relied upon for such things).

“Schubert, please go to the muniment room, find the title to my estate and fetch it here,” instructed the fairy. Schubert bowed and left. Then the fairy poured tea into each of their cups. Mr Segundus, not being burdened with the sights of the meal, took up his cup, just as he had at countless societal visits, during which he had also had no intention of taking any of the hostess’ questionable teacakes. Politely pretending that one was about to drink tea at any moment while simultaneously not drinking tea was at least well within Segundus’ experience.

“The weather has been a trifle rainy this season,” said Segundus, prepared to speak a great many banalities while they waited for Schubert to reappear with whatever document the fairy wished them to think was the property deed.

“Yes, but I am given to understand that it is normal for the spring here.” The fairy took a beetle and ate it. Childermass very determinedly did not react.

Segundus managed several more conversational topics along this line and Mr Childermass managed to make stirring the liquid in his cup nearly a five minute endeavour, but finally Schubert came back into the room, carrying a rough-edged paper.

“Oh, good, thank you, Schubert,” said the fairy. Both magicians gratefully put down their untouched tea. “Here you are, gentlemen. You see, all correct, and signed by Mr Wall himself.” After glancing at the paper, he handed it to Childermass.

Childermass accepted it and found it disturbingly warm and furred. He peered down at the small, wriggled writing, but could not make sense of it for a long moment, until...the writing crawled across the page, ink acting almost as liquid sliding along a tilted landscape. Childermass abruptly dropped the paper.

“Oh, dear,” said Segundus and made to pick it up. Childermass’ hand shot out and gripped his wrist preventing him from retrieving it.

“It would be best if you did not touch it, Mr Hargrove,” said Childermass.

Segundus looked at Childermass, and then at the fairy, who was grinning a sly grin at both of them.

“Now we are getting somewhere,” said the fairy.

“I do not understand,” said Segundus.

“I think you understand rather more than you have let on.”

“That...paper, does not give you the deed to this house or property,” said Childermass, easing his grip on Segundus and releasing him. 

The fairy shrugged. “Irrelevancies like paper do not concern me. I’m merely taking what is mine.”

“And by what right is this place yours, sir?” said Segundus.

“By the right of a bargain struck with me,” said the fairy. “I fulfilled my end, and this is what was promised to me.”

“I think,” said Childermass, “That you are overreaching that which was promised to you. We have heard that the bargain was for five acres.”

“And where did you hear this?”

“I...cannot recall,” said Childermass, and then found, to his dismay, that this was the truth. “What have you done?” he demanded. “My memory—”

“A trifling matter! The both of you have already had your memories rearranged for you several times, and by several different people, I should think.” The fairy raised is lorgnet and peered at them, a foxy little smile on its face.

Segundus looked at Childermass, alarmed. “We have been made to forget? But what—” Childermass had an odd expression on his face, one of...guilt? No, perhaps anger? Segundus shook his head and redirected his attention toward the fairy. “It is beside the point. This town is not for your consumption, sir. You were granted five acres, not the entire town, or the river. We would like to respectfully remind you of the terms of your bargain, and ask that you keep to it.”

“This is very disagreeable,” said the fairy sulkily. “I have tried so hard to be a good neighbour to the Christians, improving their little shops and streets, making them a little less drab. Surely I should be thanked, not chastised by two upstart solicitors.”

“I am sure some of your changes were appreciated,” said Segundus, still trying his hardest to be polite. “But they were not part of your bargain with Mr Wall, and as I’m sure you know, most Englishmen prefer to make changes to their shops and streets themselves, drab though they may be to such a fine gentleman as yourself.”

It was like, thought Segundus, reasoning with a very young child, except that in this instance, that child was exceedingly intelligent and had the power to turn both men into, say, trees, or something more disagreeable.

“You must have many more beautiful lands than these,” interjected Childermass. “As you said, this town is very dull. Bargain or no bargain, why would you want to stay here? Would you not rather leave the Christians to their small concerns?”

“What do you suggest?” asked the fairy, a silky, scheming tone entering its voice. “Another bargain?

“We would not presume,” said Childermass, mildly. “But surely you would grow bored here in this...manor house. Perhaps you could do as other gentlemen of quality do and install a caretaker to keep your property sound and in repair.”

“You would not presume, yet you see fit to intrude on me and offer unwanted advice,” said the fairy.

“We merely represent our clients,” said Childermass, failing to specify who those were. Childermass had many years of practice enforcing the concerns of an invisible employer.

“Then your clients should come here and make their bargain with me themselves,” said the fairy. “This prattling around the subject bores me.” So saying, it got up and crossed the room.

“Where are you—” started Segundus, but the fairy had already disappeared through the door.

He and Childermass looked at each other. 

“I suppose we had best go have another chat with...our client,” Childermass said.

“Yes,” sighed Segundus. They were both eager to leave, even if Childermass was the only one who could see the more disturbing aspects of the house.

They crossed back into the grand entry hall, making for the front door, except...it did not seem to be there anymore.

“Have we gotten turned around?” murmured Segundus.

“I think it unlikely,” said Childermass.

“That is what I was afraid of.” Segundus tried to be as nonchalant as possible as he looked around the large room to ascertain where the smaller doors led off into the rest of the house.

“The cards did warn us, I suppose,” said Childermass. He was feeling much better now that they were not encased in the heartbeat of the parlour. “And I think it prudent now to attach ourselves to one another, as we look for an alternate way out.”

Segundus paused in his observation of the room to look at Childermass in concern. 

“I don’t want to know what the scones actually looked like, do I?” he asked, readily putting his hand in Childermass’ in an easy way Childermass found very gratifying.

“You do not,” he agreed. 

They eyed the doors. 

“They look very ordinary to me,” said Segundus. “But then they would. Your enchantment was well done.”

“It was,” said Childermass with a small nod. “For they look extraordinary to me. That one on the far left next to the parlour door looks to be made of fish scales. The one next to it is little more than a dark hole. I think we should pass through the last, just there.”

“And what does it look like?

“It is ornately carved, made of a green-coloured wood, with a brass knob. Perhaps it will lead us deeper into Faerie, but the other options would seem to lead somewhere worse.”

“I cannot help but feel it rather unwise,” said Segundus. “Can we not go through a window?”

“I see no windows,” said Childermass, a trifle grimly. This startled Segundus, as he could see many perfectly ordinary windows.

“Then we are already in Faerie,” guessed Segundus. “Or at least a borderland.”

“Yes,” said Childermass. “And though I am wary of fairy tricks, I can think of no other sensible course.”

“I suppose you are right.” Segundus took a deep breath and tightened his grip on Childermass’ hand. “Then let us go.”

-

3\. One might presume that these visions should be reversed—after all, when one is under a fairy enchantment, one would see tantalising delights, not beetles. However, due to the nature of Childermass’ spell, Childermass was not _under_ the fairy’s enchantment so much as seeing only the world of Faerie where it overlaid the mortal world, and Mr Segundus was seeing the opposite, which is to say, the enchantments the fairy gentleman laid upon the ordinary world. [return]


	4. In Which The Magicians Go Into Faerie and Are Lost

The door opened easily. Beyond was a hillside framed in the fading light of day. They stepped through. The door closed behind them, with a sighing sound, as if the house was impatient to be rid of them. And as soon as it closed, it was no longer there. Segundus gave a little cry of surprise, but snapped his mouth shut immediately, knowing they could be anywhere and with any sort of company now.

“I see a hillside, and it is green, but of a certain quality that I am fairly sure I’ve never seen before in England,” said Segundus. “Do you see the same?”

“I do,” said Childermass.

“Then we have crossed from the strange borderland of the fairy’s enchantment into Faerie proper, and our own spell no longer has any first and second sight to separate.” He paused and then said, softly and unsure, “We are in Faerie, sir. I do not know whether to be frightened or elated.”

“Courage, Mr Segundus,” said Childermass, looking at him with a half smile. “Let us see what we can find in the way of a road, and to what sort of place it takes us.”

They set about trying to do this, but it was difficult. The landscape surrounding them was so bland as to be confusing.

“The fairies used to respect human magicians,” said Segundus, as they began walking, having released their grip on each other in order to better make their way.

“Stokesey and Pale and the rest, who were visiting fairies as if it were a matter of course,” agreed Childermass. “Though neither of us; we’ve no idea how to go about visiting fairies. If we can find any at all.”

“Quite. Oh—do I see a ribbon of road?” Segundus stopped to squint at the distance. Aside from the fantastical shade of green, Faerie seemed to Segundus most ordinary so far.

“Possibly,” said Childermass. They changed their direction accordingly. 

For all that both men were magicians, neither of them were yet familiar with lands other than England, and as such, were rather unequipped for navigating Faerie. They were going about it as one would in any unknown country on Earth. However, this was quite the wrong way to navigate in Faerie[4].

It was as they approached a small stream that Childermass started to get an inkling of their wrong-headed approach.

“Mr Segundus,” he said evenly. “Look at this stream and tell me: does the water flow red to your eye?”

“Why—yes!” said Segundus. “How curious.”

“Yes, and does that not seem strange to you—that it is the only curious thing we’ve seen here as of yet? This might as well be a hillside in the west of England.”

“I confess, I expected quite a lot more fantastical elements from Faerie, but I had supposed there was no reason why green hills would not exist here, as well.”

“I think we are being deceived,” said Childermass. He looked around them and then knelt. He dug his fingers into the grass and drew out a small handful of rocky dirt. Then he spoke to it, in its own language: the language of stone[5]. There was a rumbling noise, not a quake in the earth, but rather a faint, annoyed grumble and then...the world was different. Segundus could not say that it “changed” because there was no moment of revelation or splash of colour overwriting reality. It was as if he had had his eyes closed without noticing, and upon opening them, found his surroundings were not quite what he had been expecting.

“That tree was not there before,” said Segundus. “Indeed, I am not entirely sure it is a tree, but it still certainly wasn’t there before.”

“Yes,” said Childermass. “All from before was an illusion. Or, I suppose, some natural, changeable feature of Faerie. I asked the dirt to reveal everything that sits upon it.”

“Have you done such a spell before?” asked Segundus.

“No,” said Childermass. “And I doubt it would have worked in England. Faerie is a land of magic, and it seems to extend to the working of it.”

“Extraordinary,” said Segundus, eyes bright with scholarly enthusiasm. Then he turned his gaze on certain aspects of the landscape and added, “And most well-timed, sir. Suppose we had fallen into that...rather violent looking pool of liquid over there simply because we could not perceive it.”

The surroundings were different, but neither was very sure at all that what they were seeing was more real—for want of a better word—than what they had seen before. There was a shifting quality to the landscape, as if it could change again at any moment, as if its true nature  _ was _ changeability. 

Segundus began to feel...anxious, he might have said, though that was not quite the right word. He had a feeling of being in some sort of near-peril, but he could see nothing around him that would cause it (aside from the alien landscape, which he had already been uneasy about before). Childermass, having led a much less sheltered existence than Segundus, identified it easily: They were being watched, and it was an unfriendly sort of eye, whomever it belonged to.

“I think,” said Childermass, keeping a sharp eye on their surroundings, “That we should move along.”

“Yes,” said Segundus. “Shall we follow the stream? It is the only thing that has remained the same, or at least, not changed completely.”

“We should, and if I am correct in a suspicion, we should follow it downstream. For what else could it be in so close a geography from our departure, but the Swale?”

“Of course!” said Segundus. “As you know, Kirk[6] insists that many features of the natural world stay fixed in Faerie.”

So they set out along the river, which did not change course or nature, although sometimes it looked to be flowing with blood, and in some parts seemed to be deeper and more treacherous than in others. It was hard to say whether that was some trick of the changeable light or something more sinister. The sensation of being watched did not change, either. Nearly everything else did. 

At moments, it seemed as if they were wandering through an old forest, replete with sagging, gnarled trees whose canopy blocked out the light. At other times, it seemed they walked through a barren land, scorched by a drought, with the earthen walls of some great structure far in the distance, and everything glinting with a light that put one in mind of sunset, though no sun nor moon ever shewed itself. This strangeness of light, at least, they had expected, as it was mentioned in nearly every source about Faerie.

“Is it possible,” Segundus was saying, “That the entirety of the sky is a... glamour of some sort? I had thought the ‘underground’ part was perhaps some sort of archaic metaphor, but suppose that far above us are actually the earthen mounds—”

Childermass reached out and gripped Segundus’ shoulder hard enough to stop him in his tracks.

“Be still,” he said when Segundus opened his mouth to protest this. Childermass looked as if he was a second away from clapping a hand to Segundus’ lips to reinforce his words. Segundus took in their surroundings. He snapped his mouth shut.

They stood, now, in a vast and primeval forest. The trees towered over them and encased them in a false twilight. But this was not what had stopped Childermass in his tracks. They were also surrounded, on all sides, by great stone statues. Not a single one was alike, and that was worrying: for each of them was life-like in its uniqueness. Some were of very tall, but otherwise ordinary-looking men. They held positions of action and battle, as if at any moment their swords would continue their descent, their falls would be completed, their faces frozen in scowling effort would become mobile.

Others, however, were not ordinary men. They were not quite like any creatures either Childermass or Segundus had ever seen before. There were hunched ones, muscled and bald and standing on two bandy legs, with teeth like knives. There were four-legged ones, furred and terrible, with eyes that were nearly human, but claws that looked as though they belonged on some large bird of prey. The figures stretched out among the trees, a silent mockery of a battle. 

The most curious, and most terrible thing was: they were not arranged in battle with  _ each other _ . They were arranged in a circle around the two magicians where they stood in a small, dark clearing among the trees.

A stifled gasp from Segundus made Childermass turn back to him from his examination of the statues. Segundus was regarding…a child. This particular child was seated, legs folded neatly under it, directly in the middle of the clearing. It was young enough that a gender was undeterminable and unnecessary besides. Its hair was in short, wild, blond wisps around its head, and it was dressed only in a white shift that looked like a baptismal dress that it had grown out of. A ragged bandage was tied around its eyes.

Segundus and Childermass stood, watching, barely daring to breathe, but the child did not move. Its chest rose and fell, but slowly, as if it were sleeping, even though it was sitting upright, head held erect.

Finally, Childermass reached out and very deliberately took Segundus by the upper arm. Then he quietly pulled him along, roughly in the direction they had been going, but most importantly: away from the clearing. They took only glances at their surroundings as they sidled past the silently snarling statues, and neither spoke as they wandered for what seemed an eternity in the twilight of the trees. It was not until the trees had thinned and, gradually changing shape, transformed into a ruin—a ruin that looked as if it was still half tree—that Segundus dared speak again.

“We are lost,” he said. “I do not see the Swale.” Childermass looked around, looked at his own hand upon Segundus’ arm, and tightened his grip once before letting go.

“We were already lost,” said Childermass, but Segundus could hear the same undercurrent of uneasiness that he felt in his own heart.

“Well, if we come out a hundred years and a day on some fairy road, I suppose I should like to see the future of England and what the magic has wrought.” Segundus tried to say it lightly, as if in jest, but both of them were all too aware of how alarmingly true that statement could become.

“I think, Mr Segundus, that we should start acting more like magicians. We have had our wits addled by the shock.” The ruins had not changed, and so Childermass sat on a low wall. After a moment’s hesitation, Segundus sat beside him.

“What do you propose?”

“We must know a pathfinding spell. Or perhaps one for locating a specific place.” Childermass considered. “Trembley’s True Path?”

“No,” said Segundus. “It won’t do for this situation, I think. It’s more in the way of discovering one’s destiny and such like, and as I recall, there were mixed results[7]. 

“I had forgotten that,” said Childermass with a frown. 

“Gildebrant might be more to the point,” offered Segundus. “Though I believe he primarily used it to find particularly rare wild herbs. And there is Randall’s Golden Road, which I have always felt is a name that is part bluster, part poetic license gone awry, but it might serve.”

“I’ve read Randall, but I don’t recall Gildebrant. We’d best try one and if necessary, the other.” 

So they set about trying both[8]. Neither worked.

“We could call a spirit guide?” suggested Mr Segundus.

“Only if we can think of nothing else,” said Childermass. “I think such a thing might be…particularly dangerous here.”

“Have we any way of contacting England? We could ask Mr Honeyfoot for assistance. Or perhaps Mr Hadley-Bright.”

Segundus stared down at the bundles of herbs and the tiny hand mirror that had been packed neatly away in his pockets.

“Do you know, I can’t quite remember a spell for contacting an acquaintance? I feel sure there is one that I have used but…it escapes me.” 

“I don’t—” started Childermass, a furrow developing between his brows. “I’m sure I’ve seen you do it. Or was it Mr Strange? In any case, it wasn’t complicated, I do not believe.” Childermass looked down at his hands. “Let me think on it a moment.”

“Of course,” said Segundus. “I will do the same. We are simply fatigued.” 

They sat, in the unchanging twilight, trying to recall their spells, until they had quite forgotten their own names.

-

4. An experienced magician would have used a path-finding spell with very specific parameters if he wanted to get anywhere. [return]

5. Though he did not know it at the time, Childermass had performed a feat that many would have said impossible, for Faerie does not hold the same treaties that England does with the natural elements. However, due to both his natural affinity for stone, and to the mark of the Raven King upon his servant, the stones of Faerie were much more persuadable to his commands than they would have been for most other English magicians.[return]

6. The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies by Reverend Robert Kirk, 1619, published 1815. [return]

7. If you have an unpleasant destiny, there’s no use in hurrying it along. Trembley’s was to meet a wild boar when he was wandering in a French forest and to never be heard from again. [return]

8. Both required some apparatus and equipment that neither of the magicians had on hand, so the failure of the spells might have been due to the hastily constructed nature of their efforts, but it also was perhaps the nature of the land they were in. Faerie does not lend itself to order, especially when imposed from outside. [return]


	5. Forgetting

He was not sure what roused him from—well, he must have been asleep. Except that now that he was awake, he did not see that it was all that different from being asleep, because he did not recall what he had wanted to do. There had been a dream, he thought. About a forest and a stone wall. And he had not been alone. But—he looked around to make sure—he was certainly alone now.  
  
The room was not familiar to him, but it was not unfamiliar, either. He had woken in plenty of similar places, he was fairly certain. It looked a bit like a shepherd’s hut: Rough wooden walls on three sides, and a backing of stone, from which a fireplace had been built. The embers of a fire were still alive, and so he got up from the small pallet he’d been resting on, and stirred the fire back up. There were two good-sized logs left, and it would burn nicely for a while.  
  
However, after he had seen to the flame, he was at a loose end. What should he do next? He felt sure he was not one to sit idly by. The idea felt foreign to him. He looked around for something else that needed doing. In the corner was a fishing net that needed mending, and the stuff to repair it with, and so he took that up until it was done, although he was not at all sure about the passage of time. Soon enough it occurred to him to go outside. What he would do there, he was not sure, but the rest of the hut was barren and he could not sit in the firelight forever.  
  
At the door of his hut was a footpath. Seeing nothing more useful to do, he decided to walk along it, at least for a time. After all, he could always turn and go back to the hut. The path led down into a valley, and subsequently into a small village. There were people out and about their business. Several raised a hand in greeting to him, as if they knew him, and he supposed they did—why wouldn’t they, when he lived in a hut just up the road?  
  
The road—for it was truly a road now—led up to a fort at the centre of the village. Outside the gates, which were not guarded, a man sat upon a large rock, leaning back as if warming himself in the sun. He had a pleasing, friendly look about him, and seemed familiar—certainly more so than the rest of the villagers.  
  
“Good day,” he said.  
  
“Oh!” said the man, he had his head back to bask in the sun, but now he sat up straighter. “Good day. Are you one of the guests?”  
  
“I don’t know,” he said. “I suppose I could be.”  
  
“Only, I was sent out to direct the guests inside as they arrive,” said the man. “There is to be a masquerade tonight.”  
  
“Perhaps I was invited and have forgotten,” he said.  
  
“Well, what is your name?” the man asked.  
  
“I…cannot recall,” he said, most astonished by this now that he had realised it.  
  
“Well, what do your friends call you?” said the man.  
  
“I—” he hesitated because he had remembered something, even if it was not his name. “Where I am from, we call children who don’t have a name ‘John’ after a… _the_ king.”  
  
“A most interesting custom,” said the man. “Then I shall call you John.”  
  
“And you?” said the newly christened John. “What shall I call you?”  
  
“Well.” The man paused. “The master calls me Christian, though I am actually nameless, as well.” He laughed. “But we can hardly both be John!”  
  
Christian led John into the fortress, which seemed to be rather in disrepair. Christian explained that there were no more enemies of his master, so it was not important to keep the defences up.  
  
“I suppose he has done away with them all,” said John, which provoked a startled look from Christian.  
  
“I suppose,” said Christian, uneasily. “His temper is a trifle uncertain, but I’ve never seen him be cruel…”  
  
“What is the occasion for this masquerade?”  
  
“A commemoration of a victory,” said Christian. “It must have happened long ago, but I think my master celebrates it on the eve of its anniversary. Everyone is invited, even those who are not so rich or distinguished.”  
  
“That is very generous,” said John, not knowing why he said it in a sarcastic manner, only that that was how he felt about it, for reasons he could not explain.  
  
Christian seemed to forget all about his stated duty, and instead led John through the fortress, in the manner of a guide.  
  
“How long have you worked for your master?” asked John.  
  
“Oh, it must have been many…you know, I cannot remember.” Christian’s brow furrowed slightly, and his eyes became troubled. John did not like the look on him.  
  
“It is no great matter, I’m sure,” said John. “What is this room for?”  
  
“This is where the hunting trophies are kept!” Christian opened the door and continued his tour.  
  
They walked until John was sure they must have seen the whole fortress, and he felt rather contented trailing after Christian, watching him gesture and explain with enthusiasm. He wondered if he had met Christian some time ago and forgotten him. But that seemed absurd—Christian was precisely the sort of person John would not forget.  
  
“And here we have the ballroom,” Christian said, as he led them in. It was filled with guests of the masquerade. “I shall find us masks. Wait here but a moment.” He ducked away, past several pairs of dancers.  
  
John looked around the room. It seemed vast, but perhaps it was due to the peculiar light. It reminded him of…he could not recall, but he felt he’d been in rooms like this before, where the chandeliers had not done enough to illuminate such a large space. John looked up but could not see any chandeliers, and soon gave up looking for the source of light, instead turning his attention to the guests. They were, of course, all masked, but this was not at all immediately apparent in some cases—some guests had masks that could not be told apart from the rest of their faces. Some had clothing that could not be told apart from the masks. There were ladies being swept past by gentlemen, or were they light-boned birds?

As he stood on the fringes of the dancing, he overheard the conversation from those standing near him, murmured behind fluttering fans or raised goblets.

“...disgrace! If it continues we shall be overrun with false royalty…”

“...I should not imagine the silly creature can maintain his hold...not a drop of royal blood…”

“...the _Lord_ of Abandoned Memories, _indeed_ . Of all the pretentious nonsense! I know our own Lord will have _much_ to say on the matter...”

“...stepping on some toes. Casting forgetfulness about among the Christians will certainly enrage Lord…”

None of the gossip made sense to him, but gave him a vague sense of worry. He was glad to be distracted from it when Christian reappeared.  
  
“This was the only one left, but I think it rather fitting,” said Christian. The mask he handed to John was that of a lean wolf, with fur the colour of midnight and storm clouds. John raised it to his face, and Christian tied it behind his head. Then Christian shewed him his own mask, a deer, and John obligingly helped him secure it.  
  
“What does one do at a masquerade? I cannot recall having attended one before.”  
  
“Well, I suppose one eats and drinks. And of course, there is dancing.”  
  
“I do not see any food or drinks.” This relieved John, though he could not say why.  
  
“My master has arranged victuals over along the wall, just here.” Christian gestured. “I am sure they are all delightful only…I am not hungry. I don’t seem to need to eat very much these days.” A look of confusion crossed Christian’s face, but cleared when he turned back to John.  
  
“I am not hungry, either,” John agreed. “Would you like to dance, instead?” He offered his arm.  
  
“I would very much like to dance with you,” said Christian, bowing slightly, and taking John’s arm. Both had a vague notion that they had never been in this position before, but all the same, seemed to know the dance.  
  
In the dim lighting and the whirl of the crowd, the other pairs seemed even more confusing. The dances themselves felt foreign, as did the music, although John and Christian had no trouble following them. Christian did not feel strange in John’s arms. In fact, of all the things he had done that day since the moment he had woken in the hut, Christian was the most familiar.  
  
“You are most imposing,” Christian told him, looking up at John a with a bashful tilt of his head. “I feel we have met before, but I cannot think where. Have you come to a dance before?”  
  
“No,” said John with some certainty. “But I also feel we have met before.” He puzzled over it. The weight of Christian was pleasing, and John held him a little more firmly, wondering if this was familiar, too, or if he simply wished it to be familiar.  
  
The music shifted every so often, and so did the dancers around them, and on and on they danced. An indeterminate time later, a person knocked into John’s back, bringing them to an abrupt halt. Though he was sorry to stop, John felt all of a sudden as though he should be tired.  
  
“I do beg your pardon,” said the person with whom he had collided, “I seem to have strayed too near the dancing.” John turned to regard him. He was an older gentleman with silver hair, in an expensive grey coat, with a fine walking cane in one hand. The grey coat shone like a dull moon when he shifted, and the walking cane seemed to be made entirely of silver. John had seen him before, somewhere.  
  
“There is no harm done,” said John.  
  
“Glad to hear it,” said the man, jovially. “Shouldn’t you be getting back to your business, now?”  
  
“My business?”  
  
“Yes—after all, you and your gentleman,” he gestured at Christian, “have business elsewhere. Or so you told me.”  
  
“I do not remember it,” said John apologetically.  
  
“No matter,” said the man. “You’ll not be here much longer.” He paused and regarded them both. “I should like to freely give you both some advice, which is not an offer I make lightly.” He paused, until John nodded gravely at him, and Christian, though his eyes were clouded in confusion, said, “We’d thank you for it, sir.”  
  
“Yes, well, your thanks are certainly bargain enough. The advice is this: the problematic person you’ve recently dealt with is not so powerful as you might assume. They wish to make their power greater with pomp and illusion, but have no great resources, titles, or skill at their disposal.”  
  
“I’m afraid I cannot recall the person you are referring to,” said John.  
  
“Just remember it for a later date,” said the man. “And remember that it was me who told you.” With that, he gave a little bow and went to mingle with those not engaged in the dancing.  
  
John and Christian exchanged a puzzled look, but did not resume the dance.  
  
“Would you like to see something beautiful?” asked Christian after a moment’s silence, almost shyly. John smiled, for he thought he might have some idea of what sort of place Christian intended to lead him.  
  
“I would,” said John, holding out his arm to Christian. “Though I see quite a bit that is beautiful, right here.” He offered another slant smile, sweeping his gaze over Christian as he said it, and was most gratified when Christian blushed.  
  
“There is one room I did not shew you before. It contains my master’s most prized treasures.”  
  
“Then I would be delighted to accompany you there.”  
  
The fortress seemed even more of a labyrinth, but Christian’s steps were sure and confident as he led John by their linked arms, around myriad corners and up cramped stairways. They finally came to a set of outsize double doors that were carved so intricately and cleverly that they appeared to have a forest with shifting stars on them. John thought they must be enchanted—for the stars twinkled and the trees shifted in a night wind. Christian barely spared it a glance before he grasped the handles and opened the doors.  
  
On the other side was a large room, made up like a curio cabinet, but on a much grander scale. The walls were lined with niches, and painted as the door had been, and in each of them rested…stars. Or perhaps stars trapped inside globes. John drifted into the room, awestruck. He scarcely knew where to look, his eye caught by the shifting colours, a unique mixture inside each and every globe.  
  
“This is, indeed, very beautiful,’ managed John.  
  
“It is my favourite room,” Christian said. “This is the most beautiful one, do you not think?” Christian directed John’s gaze toward a globe mounted not in a niche, but on a stand at the centre of a small table. Inside swirled the colours of a storm cloud, with lightning strikes of heather purple and flashing ocean blue. It was beautiful enough, John thought, but it gave him a strange feeling in his chest, like a stab of pleasure and regret both at the same time, as if he were looking at something he longed for, but could not have.  
  
However, it was nothing compared to the globe sitting further down the table that looked like a rosy dawn and made his breath catch in his throat. John felt his heart brim over with the strangest of emotions, as if it was simultaneously too full and would yet never be full enough. He found himself drawn to it and wanted nothing more than to touch it. He had just reached out to pluck it from its stand when the doors to the room was slammed open.

John’s hand twitched. The beautiful globe rolled off its perch and down the table until it tipped over the end and smashed upon the floor.  
  
John and Christian each cried out in dismay. Christian raised a hand to his head, as if he had just been struck.  
  
“I…I…” Christian did not seem to be able to finish his sentence.  
  
“Why, Christian, whatever are you and your…friend…doing in here?” said the person who John supposed was the lord of the fortress.  
  
“I was shewing—John—your collection. We meant no harm.”  
  
Christian took his hand away from his head so as not to make it obvious that he knew himself to be, once again, Mr John Segundus and not the servant of this fairy at all. What he was feeling, he could not have said.  
  
“These treasures are magnificent. And all different,” said the man Segundus now knew was John Childermass, but who clearly still did not know himself. “You must employ a master glassblower. I have never seen their equal.” Here his brow furrowed, as if he were trying to remember where he might have seen such things.  
  
“Oh no, those aren’t anything so mundane as glass,” said the fairy.  
  
“Then what are they?” asked Childermass.  
  
“Remembrances, recollections, memories,” said the fairy. “I collect them, you see. They are all so fascinating. Like small private worlds, full of piercing and delicious swirls of emotion.”  
  
“That is stealing,” said Segundus, his feelings on the matter resolving themselves into a hard and fast anger, and he quite forgot to play the part of a man whose memory was missing.  
  
“Oh, don’t act so pious,” said the fairy. “You were already missing memories and did not even notice. I just took the rest.”  
  
“That is the second time I have been accused of not remembering something!” said Segundus, fully indignant now. “I say, sir, that I have not had my memory taken before. I was whole in mind and am once more. No thanks to your…your…machinations!”  
  
“Oh, and how would you know, if you couldn’t remember?” the fairy laughed. “Fine, I shall shew you. No one has yet captured your other escaped memories. I can just pluck them from the past and restore them quite easily.” The fairy flicked a hand in a dismissive gesture, and though at first Segundus could not say what had changed, after a moment, he felt a subtle reordering of…something. As if he had caught the scent of something from long ago and it brought the memory back with it in a small cresting wave. The scent was…books. No, a library. No, not just a library—a magnificent, fantastical library, housed like a snug and well-loved church box, with carefully oiled wood and the scent of expensive beeswax candles.  
  
“I was visiting Mr Norrell!” cried Segundus. “We stayed an entire afternoon, reading books and discussing the state of English magic. I held Belasis’ instructions in my hands! I remember—” and here he became quiet. Then, after a moment, he turned to Childermass, but Childermass still stood there with a puzzled and rather apprehensive look on his face, no doubt wondering why he was present for an argument between a master and his servant.  
  
That was certainly not what Segundus wanted. How was he to properly tell Childermass the full extent of his outrage if Childermass didn’t even remember him?  
  
Segundus was not given to acts of impulsiveness, and in fact, had probably erred in the opposite direction much more often. However, his brief tenure as a school master and one of the only authorities of practical magic in the whole of England, had afforded him a greater ability to react quickly in an emergency, especially with the sorts of magic that would save a room full of students from a magical experiment gone awry or a mis-spelling in mid-casting. As such, with barely more than a split second’s thought, he cast a spell.  
  
It was not a refined spell, or even a particularly complicated one: He’d used it just two weeks ago to cause Chilton-Whitley to drop a magical apparatus that was about to scorch his hand at a badly mispronounced word. Now, Segundus simply caused every one of the crystals in the room to drop to the ground. Due, probably, both to Faerie’s inherently magical qualities and to the vehemence of Mr Segundus’ feelings on the matter, they did so, immediately, and with a resounding and impressive crash.  
  
There was a silence that followed, as the pieces of shattered memory on the floor began to dissolve. Childermass’ head was cupped in both hands, but Segundus could only spare him a glance, all of his wary focus now on the fairy.  
  
The sound the fairy made was like nothing either magician had ever heard before, or would ever hear again if they were lucky. Childermass jerked his head up, glanced at Segundus, but this time with the full weight of his knowledge and memory behind his eyes. Then he looked at the fairy.  
  
“You dare,” screamed the fairy.  
  
“Yes, I _dare_ ,” said Segundus, still angry, but not quite with the same force that had helped along his spell. He tried very hard to hang on to it, so he would not become afraid of what he had done.  
  
“By what right do you come to my house and take my treasures from me?”  
  
“By the same right you had to steal my memories in the first place!” said Segundus.  
  
“You were hardly using them to any purpose,” said the fairy. Segundus hardly knew what to say to that. “Certainly some of these memories belong only to the dead. They are irreplaceable! I will accept nothing less than repayment for everything you have destroyed!”  
  
“And you shall have it,” said Childermass. He did not shout, but his voice had a strange quality to it, as if it carried thunder with it in the background. Childermass did not move from where he was, but he regarded the fairy with his pitiless eyes full of anger. Then he said, “Here and now, I shall repay you in kind for your theft. I command that the stones shall no more do your bidding.” Childermass flattened his hand against the stone walls of the room. “The hard and stoney parts of the earth and those in the lands allied with it shall no longer hear your summons, and this I say by their ancient alliance with the Raven King and to the deep bones of England itself!”  
  
“You do not have the authority here—” the fairy started to say, haughty and enraged. But then it stopped and peered around rather bewildered.  
  
“I do have the authority,” thundered Childermass[9]. “I am the Raven King’s servant, and his is the only bidding I may do. Never yours or any other of your kind.”  
  
“I will turn you into a venomous toad!” screamed the fairy. “I will curse you for a thousand years to wander in a thirsty desert!”  
  
“You will not,” said Segundus, recovering himself somewhat, though his anger had quite temporarily been eclipsed by the sheer hubris of Childermass’. “For if you do, we will turn the other elements from you as well.”  
  
“You cannot, would not dare! I am older than your foundling king! You cannot bind anything from my will.”  
  
Childermass gave him a contemptuous look, for he clearly just had done so. Though he had only the vaguest notion of how he had obtained such mastery, they had one and all felt the stones accept the command. Yet there were doubtless some other things that the fairy could do, if it were feeling motivated enough in its rage.  
  
“The mirror,” muttered Segundus. It hung at the end of the gallery, and was wide enough for several men to walk into easily.  
  
“Your threats are idle.” Childermass told the fairy. “Find a different interest and trouble us no more.” Then he nodded at Segundus, who wasted no more time and strode to the end of hall, leaving the fairy sputtering and making helpless noises at all its smashed treasures.  
  
Segundus had never had cause to use the King’s Roads, although he had been tempted to go upon them more than once. Childermass had related Strange’s method at one of the York Society meetings, to a select group of the more level-headed among the magicians. To Segundus, the curiosity had never seemed to outweigh the danger, but as things stood, greater danger was no longer a concern.

He murmured the spell of revelation, followed by the dissolution, and then the way-finding, which he had no trouble remembering now. Together they stepped out on to the roads.

-

9. In point of fact, Childermass’ success had nothing to do with his own authority, nor the Raven King’s. It rested purely on the fact that the Fairy Lord had not bargained properly for their memories, nor even stole them by honest trickery. He was a very old Lord, and had grown too used to his own power. Instead of appearing to the magicians and coaxing them into a bargain, he simply took their memories without offering equal value in return, and thus Childermass was within his rights to demand such a repayment. As for why the stones granted his demands, that is such a question only they could answer.[return]


	6. In Which There is a Confrontation

For a moment Segundus was overcome with the sheer…size. It was as if the great monuments of Rome had been remade by giants who had no cause to follow any particular rules regarding the laws of nature. Staircases stretched away into the distance until they became rivers. Arches rose majestic and stylised, turned toward a light that did not exist, their shadows oddly placed. The light overall was strange. It was not the odd perpetual light of Faerie, but neither was it the natural light of sun or moon. It was a sourceless light, as if it came from the stones themselves.

“It will not be able to follow us,” said Childermass, looking around in satisfaction at the fantastical architecture stretching away from them in every direction at every angle. “The King’s Roads are all stone.” He laughed in a way that shewed he was both awed and pleased.

“They are beautiful. It would take years to learn one’s way,” said Segundus, his awe momentarily outweighing all the other turbulent emotions warring in him.

“Yes,” said Childermass. “I imagine so. But I trust you have cast your way-finding correctly.” Childermass offered him his sideways smile and Segundus found himself remembering it in the context of a stranger’s interested and slightly dangerous grin at a masquerade ball just a few hours before. He shook it off. Now was not the time for any of his recollections.

“This way,” said Segundus, and led them in a steady manner toward the parlour of Starecross Hall, while Childermass kept a sharp eye on their surroundings, although nothing stirred on the King’s Roads besides the two of them. Segundus had not thought beyond a safe destination, but now he wondered if he should have set the spell to take them back to the village. It was unwise to change direction in the midst of the King’s Roads, however.

“Do you have a notion of how many days we’ve been gone?” he asked Childermass.

“No,” said Childermass, grimly. “Though I’ve a notion our letters have been delivered, whether a day ago, or ten years ago, I cannot guess.”

The King’s Roads were unpredictable in length, but their travel did not seem to take very long.

Stepping down from the parlour mirror was slightly less dignified than perhaps other ways of travel (and Mr Segundus made a note to have it hung lower) but the wonderful sight of home and hearth nearly overcame Segundus. In fact, it affected Childermass almost as powerfully. It did not look any different than when Segundus had left it, so with great relief, he concluded that they had not been gone for years. 

An awful thought struck Segundus and he went dashing toward the door, calling out for Mr Honeyfoot. He found his housekeeper, Mrs Tallow, at the foot of the main stairs, cleaning rags in hand.

“Why, Mr Segundus,” said his astonished housekeeper. “What are you doing here?”

“Nevermind that,” cried Segundus. “What day is it? And where is Mr Honeyfoot?”

“It’s Sunday the third of April,” said the housekeeper, with the patient air of one who lived with scholarly magicians. “And Mr Honeyfoot set out for Blythe-on-Swale at dawn, after receiving your letter yesterday.”

“Dawn,” murmured Childermass from the parlour door. He looked out the window at the late morning light. “At half a day’s ride, he’ll be there already, and perhaps some of the others we addressed letters too.”

“We can’t let them go up against the fairy! They’ll be lost in Faerie as well!”

“Then we must risk the King’s Roads again. Even with fresh horses, we could not hope to get there faster,” said Childermass. “I’ll direct us toward the church, and hope that our path is quick.”

They rushed back to the parlour mirror and pushed the settee against the wall so they could step up to it. Segundus cast the dissolution as Childermass cast the way-finding, and once more they stepped onto the road. 

At first they walked in urgent silence, but after a long while, Childermass became aware that something was amiss. Even in the face of their urgency, Segundus should have been postulating, suggesting spells and frameworks to advance their scholarly knowledge of the King’s Roads or of fairy magic, or even suggesting their course of action upon reaching Blythe-on-Swale.

“I’m sure we will not be too late,” said Childermass, “If it is troubling you. We have dealt with one fairy successfully. We should be able to persuade this one to leave more effectively now.”

“No doubt we shall,” said Segundus.

“If that is not what troubles you—” tried Childermass.

“It is not,” said Segundus shortly. “But pray let us discuss it later, after we have dealt with the matter at hand.”

“Ah,” said Childermass and there was a short lull as they walked before he continued: “You are concerned about the masquerade.”

“Of course not,” said Segundus, briskly. “Neither of us were ourselves. I would not give weight to anything either of us said during such a time. And do you not think our other problems are much more pressing?”

“Yes,” said Childermass, and neither spoke for a time. The roads seemed to discourage it, in any case, making it easier to remain quiet than to keep up a steady conversation. Things echoed eerily, and there was no telling who or what could be just out of sight behind a pillar or across a gully. 

Childermass’ pathfinding spell was as efficient as the man, and it seemed they walked no more than an hour before they could see a door ahead of them. The door was, of course, the mirror in the Vicar’s study in Blythe-on-Swale. When they stepped down from it, the Vicar was not present. They rushed through to the darkened church and out into the street.

It was late morning when they stepped out, but it looked like twilight. The Vicar’s street had fallen under the fairy’s enchantment. The cobblestones were strange and bright, like the scales of a dragon, or unpolished precious stones under river water. The house fronts themselves had changed in texture, and the windows had a sly look, like the closed eyes of an animal pretending to be asleep.

“Ought we to check the public house first?” asked Segundus, looking around. “Or shall we assume it would do us no good, and go directly to the manor?”

“Let us be direct,” said Childermass. “But we must think of a better method than our first one. I think you were right, from the start—we should be ourselves: two English magicians.”

-

The broad street leading to the manor was, if possible, more fantastical than it had been when they’d left it previously. It was in the surfeit of detail: plain and sturdy wooden lintels had transformed themselves into intricately carved tangles of vine and tree, in a manner that shifted before one’s eye. The public well at the centre of the square had acquired a fountain statue of a sea serpent coiled around the rim and then raised to spit water from its mouth. The doubling of the ordinary world and Faerie was still visible to both magicians, but the fairy enchantment was noticeably stronger and had nearly overtaken the mundane details that lay underneath it. As such, it was easier for the two of them to navigate as they walked briskly toward the brugh. It was hardly heartening, however, and Segundus grew increasingly dismayed as Childermass grew increasingly grim.

The door was as Childermass had seen it, while Segundus was now seeing it truly for the first time.

“I see now why, when we arrived before, you wished me to knock,” said Segundus, eyeing the door knocker.

“No matter,” said Childermass. “We are no longer trying to be respectable. I will knock upon the door itself.”

The noise of Childermass’ fist upon the door echoed oddly, but seemed sufficiently loud to summon the attention of the inhabitants. Indeed, the fairy butler must have been quite near, for the door opened sooner than expected. Segundus could not entirely hide his surprise at the true visage of Schubert.

“Yet more Christian magicians,” said Schubert, “but perhaps it does not count if they are repeat visitors.” It considered them with a little curl of the lip, and finally said, “I’ll get my master.” But it did not close the door, as if it was unused to such duties and had given them up as an inconsequential job. 

Childermass caught the door before it could swing shut and stepped in, with Segundus following just behind. The room was as Childermass remembered, but poor Segundus, even after having lived in another fairy’s fortress for a short time, was very unprepared for the differences. 

“Good God,” he muttered, and put a hand briefly to Childermass’ shoulder to steady himself. 

“The parlour is worse,” said Childermass. 

And then they heard, “I simply cannot deal with any more Christians today. They are exhausting! Send these away, Schubert.” The fairy was coming down the grand staircase. 

“Of course, master,” Schubert said, at the foot of the stairs. “Only what shall I do with the others?”

“Oh, turn them into toadstools. I do not care.”

“You shall not,” said Childermass, in a tone that resonated around the hall, “turn anyone into a toadstool today.”

“How dare you,” said the fairy coldly, “presume to give me orders, as if I am of some common order—”

“You have blustered enough, sir,” said Segundus. He surprised himself, and also the fairy, who stopped speaking. He had been living under a fairy enchantment for what felt like weeks and he was very tired. “You have broken your contract with Tom Wall by overreaching your agreement. As such, the agreement is void, and you have forfeited your right to this land and house. It would be best if you left now—”

“I shall do no such thing—”

“—Or we will be forced to take greater measures,” finished Segundus.

“You haven’t the power to enforce your words,” sneered the fairy.

“Neither have you,” said Childermass. He crossed his arms and looked contemptuous. “You are a pretender. A mere opportunist. And by your greed you broke your own bargain.”

Segundus felt they were treading frightfully close to a threshold wherein the fairy would call their bluff, or rebuff them with magic they did not have the knowledge to defeat. After all: even ordinary fairies had lived much longer and more magical lives than most human magicians. But it was also true that children and milk maids and poor leather-workers’ sons had defeated them handily whenever their trickery was revealed.

“I hope I haven’t come at an inconvenient time,” said a new, mild voice from behind the two magicians. They turned.

In the open doorway stood the older gentleman with the walking cane and neat grey suit. He was not so luminous as he’d been at the masquerade, but there still lingered an impression of moonlight on his clothes and hair. Next to him stood Vicar Barrow.

“Or perhaps just the right inconvenient time,” he amended, looking around the room. Schubert made a small noise of dismay and adroitly disappeared through the fish-scale door. 

“ _ You _ ,” said the fairy, its mocking and haughty air still in place, but perhaps a little forced. “You have no call to be here.”

“On the contrary,” said the moonlit Gentleman. He looked to be enjoying himself, with a twinkle in his eye somewhat at odds with his monied and sober air. “There have been several complaints. I came to resolve a territorial dispute, and here I find you have also violated a bargain.” 

“There is no dispute!” said the fairy, at once foxish and sulky, its red curls looking more like fur by the minute. “These five acres are mine by right, and I may take whatever else I may hold, as is the law!”

“You may not take what is already held by another of us,” said the Gentleman. “This village is under your care, is it not?” He said this to Vicar Barrow, whose eyes glinted gold before he quickly averted them. 

“Yes,” said Vicar Barrow. “It is mine.” To Segundus he still looked mostly ordinary, but perhaps that was the trick: he’d shrunken himself so far down to deny his nature, that it seemed almost as strange to be  _ so _ drab and colourless.  

“As for the acres, they are certainly forfeited by your behaviour in breaking a bargain,” said the Gentleman. “But even were they not, you have visited disruptive magics upon the Christians. By the decree of the Circle of Kings, you will leave this realm and return to your own.”

“This is outrageous! You are giving preference to a mere half-blood upstart over  _ me _ ,” said the fairy.  Its eyes flashed, and it raised a hand slightly, as if preparing to work some sort of magic. The magicians glanced at each other and braced themselves.

Abruptly, they were all standing in the ruined entry hall of a once-stately manor house. The fairy glamour was completely gone, along with the fairy itself. 

Behind the parlour door came a banging, and then the door flew open to reveal Mr Honeyfoot, Miss Redruth, and Mr Hadley-Bright. They did not look much the worse for their time spent in the fairy’s power, and to their credit, as they came through the door they unleashed several complex spells that dissipated harmlessly when they took in the changed room.

“Well,” said Segundus, feeling someone should say something. He turned to the moonlit Gentleman. “Your intervention was most timely, sir.”

“As was your assistance.” He gave them both a little bow.

“May I ask, sir, what is this Circle of Kings and the agreement to which you referred,” asked Childermass, although his tone did not suggest it was a question.

“Oh, certainly. It is not a secret, and the King requested specifically that I tell you, and indeed, any English magician I should encounter.” He glanced at the others as they joined Childermass and Segundus, abuzz with their own questions.

“—such trickery and petulance!” Miss Redruth was saying.

“A moment, friends,” said Childermass.

“We shall discuss all,” added Segundus, “Only let this gentleman speak first.” They fell silent, regarding the moonlit Gentleman a trifle warily.

“I should preface this by telling you that I am in the service of a great king,” said the Gentleman, “but he was once from this place.”

“Stephen Black,” said Childermass.

“I believe that was what your people called him,” said the Gentleman. “However, now he has many titles and trusts, and one of them is the Head of the Circle of Kings, which he formed shortly after he came to his throne. As he is from England, he has a vast knowledge of the workings of this world. He wished, as a great diplomat does, to keep this land and his own land on cordial terms. He has explained to me that you do not consider his lands any different than the other Kings’ lands, and that to achieve such cordiality, there must be an accord with as many of the fairy kings as possible. To that end, he formed the Circle, and they made an agreement that any disruptive or warlike behaviour on the part of any party would be anathema, and subject to censorious action. I am but one instrument of the agreement, and was sent to find the cause of the enchantments here.” He gave a small laugh. “In some ways, I suppose I am your counterpart.”

“It is good to know there is such a wise king in Faerie,” said Childermass.

“Oh yes, he is very wise.”

“What of you, Vicar Barrow?” Segundus had been watching him during the discussion, but Barrow had kept his head bowed. “It sounded as if you have prior claim to this land.”

“I am sorry,” the Vicar choked, “to have been somewhat deceitful—” He stopped and seemed to gather himself, after which he raised his head and looked at all of them. “When I received my priesthood, I made sure I was placed here as steward of this village and these people, but they were mine before that, only—I did not think of it like that. I am not one like—” He glanced at the last place the fairy had stood. “I was born here, and I have done the best I could, by becoming a...a shepherd, a man of god, and I thought if I were pious and simple I could keep out the wickedness in me.”

Barrow looked a breath away from tears and Segundus found he felt quite sorry for him.

“The lands are yours by right,” said the Gentleman. “They border a kingdom of Faerie that belonged to your great-grandfather, I believe, but have fallen to neglect. Such a place needs a watchful eye.”

“But I could do nothing against that fairy lord!” Barrow said, his voice shaking. In the face of such emotion, he truly forgot to keep his dullness wrapped around. His eyebrows became distinctly winged, and his eyes were a brown-gold not found in humans.

“He was not a lord,” said Childermass. “And you did do something—you called for us.”

“Quite so, quite so,” said the Gentleman. “And now that it is settled, I shall depart, and give my report to the king. I shall be sure to include your efforts, Magicians. And I shall come to call upon you again when it is the right time.” With that slightly ominous pronouncement, he was gone, only the moonlight of his presence lingering a moment longer.

Those left looked at each other, unsure.

“Let us go to the inn,” said Segundus. “I feel I have not eaten for nearly a week, though it has only been one day. We can recount our parts in this there.”


	7. In Which There is Discussion and Resolution

They left the manor, relieved to find that the rest of the enchantment was, in fact, gone. As they approached the Swale, the water ran opposite to what they had first observed, and the wheel of the mill turned. The well in the square boasted, once again, only an ordinary stone roof, and the storefronts all looked exceedingly normal.

The Vicar withdrew back into himself, giving an impression of both guilt and relief. And as they came near the church, Childermass leaned in and murmured, “We will not reveal your secret. Call for us if something similar should happen again.”

“Let God prevent it,” Barrow said with a shudder, but he paused to shake Childermass and Segundus’ hands before scurrying back into his church.

If Segundus were rather more curt than usual during their walk, no one remarked upon it. None of them were at their best, although the three freed magicians were in fairly high spirits, having just met not one, but several fairies, and come away still in their proper forms.

The inn was not crowded, and the publican quickly found them a table, though he eyed them a bit more closely than he had before, almost certainly having worked out that they were all magicians.

It transpired that Mr Honeyfoot had received his letter from Mr Segundus just before the weekly meeting of the Society, and subsequently had heard Segundus’ letter to the society read aloud. Miss Redruth had volunteered to accompany him (which was not a task any of the other members had truly fought for).

“Cowards,” she sniffed.

“Come, Mr Trewly  _ was _ turned into a sheep last time he set forth to help with a magical mishap,” said Segundus.

“For all of a handful of minutes,” said Childermass, who quite shared Miss Redruth’s opinion. 

Mr Hadley-Bright had gotten the letter late at night and had, in fact, taken the King’s Roads to Blythe-on-Swale. He’d gotten somewhat lost— “and had a marvellous adventure. I was nearly attacked on a fantastical bridge! But it transpired that the gentleman was not looking for  _ me _ , only a specific person, and he let me pass unharmed.” When he had arrived, from the mirror of a very surprised matron— “She was quite enthusiastic once I explained to her I was a magician—” he had gone straight toward the fairy brugh, which by that time had been very obvious.

The fairy had trapped them all in the parlour for some hours, though they had tried many magics “—one turned the walls green, like a necrotic heart, and it was quite terrible until we set it right—” related Mr Honeyfoot with a shudder. Seeing that they could not get free, they had instead prepared as many defensive and offensive magics as they could, hoping that at least one would be effective against a fairy.

“You are all dear friends and faithful magicians, to have come to our aid,” said Segundus, feeling quite warmed by the lengths the three had gone to.

“Now, tell us, what happened to you!” cried Mr Honeyfoot.

And so, haltingly, Segundus and Childermass related what they had done, and where they had gone, although through unspoken agreement, they both seemed to leave some details out of the telling. Neither mentioned the masquerade or said much about their time of having forgotten themselves. The three magicians were very interested in Childermass’ command of the stones, as told by Segundus.

“I believe it was partly a peculiarity of Faerie,” Childermass said. “It was easier to speak with the stones there, and they responded with great force. I will think on it more.”

Soon enough they had told all they knew, over a hearty meal, and they began to make plans to return to their respective homes. Miss Redruth bid them good-bye and climbed into a carriage she had arranged to bring her back to York, knowing they would see each other at the next Society meeting. Mr Hadley-Bright begged the innkeeper for a moment with a mirror in an unused room, and cheerfully told them to call on him in London any time they wished, before he disappeared behind the door. 

Mr Honeyfoot ordered their horses, and Segundus and Childermass mounted the stairs together to gather their belongings.

With the door to their small inn room closed, Childermass stopped and leaned his back upon it, even as Segundus began to pack his things.

“You are distraught,” said Childermass.

“No,” said Segundus, not pausing in his motions. “I am  _ angry _ .”

“With me,” said Childermass. There was a faint air of puzzlement about the statement.

“Yes!” cried Segundus, turning at last and throwing his hands up in frustration. “You  _ knew _ and you  _ allowed _ —” Segundus was quite overcome with his anger for the second time in a day, an emotion he was still very unused to in general. Being angry at a fairy for stealing memories is almost like being angry at the wind—fruitless, if real enough. But being angry at a person, especially a person one has thought a friend, is quite a different matter. The anger simmered low and constant in his chest.

“I do not understand you—” started Childermass.

“The first time we met!” said Segundus, indignantly. “At Hurtfew Abbey in Mr Norrell’s beloved library.” This last was said with a certain amount of bitterness that Segundus was quite unable to mask.

“Ah.”

“The fairy said we’d both had our memories stolen,” said Segundus. “But I did not imagine it was you and Mr Norrell. And after all these years of our acquaintance, to find you, of all people, had…had been party to the theft of my memories!”

“I did try to talk him out of it,” said Childermass, his tone mild but his dark eyes grave. “My former master would not be swayed. He routinely cast it upon anyone who had seen his library, except for the servants.”

“And all for what?” cried Segundus. “So that he could jealously guard his books? I have never known a more selfish man!”

“I do not disagree.”

“And yet you carried out his every command! You helped him to the last!”

“I did,” agreed Childermass. “And of my own free will. I was in his service and I felt myself obliged to do as he commanded, though not always in the way he commanded it.”

“Yes! That was my point! Why did you not question Norrell’s orders when they were so often unjust and small-minded. Do not hide behind his small-mindedness.  _ Your  _ mind has never been small.”

“I do not excuse my actions,” he said, plain and quiet. “But you misunderstand. I must tell you—remember that the fairy said I had had memories taken from me as well. Once by Norrell—” he stopped and a slight shadow passed over his face. Then, “But twice by someone else. By the only one I have ever truly served.”

“Riddles, now!” said Segundus. He was still very angry, but felt unsettled by it, by the wildness of it. He did not understand how he could be so wild with it. What he truly wanted was to go back in time and rail at Mr Norrell, not Childermass. Childermass was only satisfying to rail at when he had an improper magical opinion, not about something like this, when he simply admitted his culpability with no resistance.

“It is not a riddle. I am the servant of the King of the North. Named after him, and commanded by him.” He paused and added with a sardonic, regretful smile, “Even, it seems, when I did not know it.”

“The Raven King commanded you? And…took the memory from you?” Segundus felt his anger derail, but was left feeling nauseous at the absence.

“Yes. Twice.”

“And the fairy brought it back?

“You did—when you smashed the globes. I believe the memories were not taken, so much as obscured. They are still not clear in my mind. They are like the recollection of a particularly vivid dream, but perhaps the sort that one had in childhood, so that it has become faded and confused at the details. But I remember that it happened, which is more than I remembered before. I am almost grateful to the fairy.”

“Well, I am not.” Segundus set his jaw and did not look at Childermass. “It made me forget myself for what felt like weeks, or perhaps it just made it seem as if weeks had passed. It made me forget—everything.”

“I know,” said Childermass. “It affected me in the same way. It is truly disconcerting to not remember one’s own name.”

“But you  _ did _ remember, after a fashion,” said Segundus. “Whereas I—” he gave his head a bitter toss. “I simply did its bidding, and then attended a masquerade, where I behaved—inappropriately.”

“You did not,” said Childermass. “If either of us did, it was I. For that you have my apology.”

“And I don’t want your apology—not for that,” said Segundus, this time with less vehemence and more weariness.

“You don’t want my apology,” said Childermass, his eyes at their most calculating. He stepped away from the door toward Segundus. It was a very small room, and he was at Segundus’ side in two long steps.

“I want your apology for the loss of my memory,” said Segundus, stiffly. Carefully, as if Childermass thought Segundus might object, he reached out and grasped Segundus at the forearm.

“Then you have my sincere apology for it, sir.” Childermass looked directly into his eyes and for once Segundus detected no glint of amusement or mischief. “Had I to do it again, I would not. I regretted it even as I watched Mr Norrell do the magic.” He paused, but neither of them moved. After a moment, Childermass added, “I have always regarded you as one of the better magicians and men of my acquaintance. I swear to you I will never again manipulate you by magic, nor stand by as another does so.” 

He let his sincerity hang in the air, and with it, Segundus felt the tight band of nausea dissipate. Now he merely felt so lax with relief and exhaustion, that he found he was leaning into Childermass’ grip.

“That was a very handsome apology, and I am grateful for it,” Segundus said at last. 

He made no move to take his arm back. Neither of them, in fact, seemed inclined to move, though Segundus could not say if it was from mutual weariness or from the small unfurling of a different sort of awareness, which was not new. If Mr Segundus was quite honest with himself, it was not new even before they had danced at a fairy masquerade. Perhaps, in the wake of their last discussion, they should have this one as well—

There was a knock at the door and then Mr Honeyfoot’s voice sounded through.

“Do you need assistance, sirs?” 

“No,” said Segundus, after a too-long interval. “We shall come out momentarily.”

“Ah, good. I thought perhaps there had been one last fairy trick or that either of you had some last ill effect from your journey.”

“We are fine,” said Segundus, and finally, reluctantly, took his arm back. Childermass let it go easily, but held his gaze for one more long moment. Then they both gathered the last of their things and left the room for the courtyard, where their horses awaited them.

“Now I suppose you will go to York and collect Vinculus? I have it on good authority that Mrs Osterly is keeping him nearly docile with her excellent cooking.”

“Yes. Then we will go to meet several Spanish priests that have requested a look at him. They have some knowledge of ancient languages.”

“That is most excellent!” said Mr Honeyfoot, and if it seemed strange to him that he was carrying the bulk of the conversation, he did not shew it. “I hope you will write to us of any discoveries. Or visit in due time.”

“I would be honoured,” he said. “And I thank you for the invitation.”

“Well, I suppose we should be off. At this distance, we’ll make it before nightfall.” Mr Honeyfoot secured his hat and looked between the two of them.

“Yes, do visit,” agreed Segundus. “Good-bye, Mr Childermass.” He felt there were many others things he might say, but could not think of a single one, with Childermass’ dark and weighty gaze upon him.

“Thank you, Mr Segundus. I will come soon.” Childermass tipped his hat. “Good-bye to you both.” 

They all three departed, into blustery spring weather.

Segundus wrote four articles[10] on the events, Childermass two[11]. They collaborated upon one[12]. Mr Honeyfoot, Miss Redruth, and Mr Hadley-Bright co-wrote one[13] about the magics they had tried when under the fairy enchantment. 

Much to the relief of Mr Segundus, some of the people with magical problems began to write also to Miss Redruth and Mr Hadley-Bright with their pleas for help. Magic continued to flourish in England.

Come the autumn harvest, six crates of apple wine arrived at Starecross hall, addressed to both Mr Segundus and Mr Childermass, with regards from the Vicar of Blythe-on-Swale.

-

10. _Our Obligation as English Magicians Toward the Faerie Lands_ ; _The Changeable Nature of Faerie_ ; _What Folktales May Tell Us of Fairy Encounters_ ; _On the Source of Magic: a Philosophical Review_.[return]

11. _Fairy Law As Extrapolated From Their Actions_ ; _A Review of Known Techniques for Safely Navigating The Other Lands_. [return]

12. _The Magic of Memory and Forgetfulness_ , manuscript submitted for publication in The Modern Magician, forthcoming issue.[return]

13. _When Held Captive By A Fairy: A Discussion on the Nature of Fairy Magic_. [return]


End file.
